


Font of Life

by Rosywonder



Series: Grove Street Stories [2]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 137,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosywonder/pseuds/Rosywonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even on one's honeymoon, one is not safe from the evil intentions of THRUSH, especially if you are married to Illya Kuryakin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'The Coalminer's Wife'.

The first adjustment to living with someone else had to be the noise, Illya thought; not that certain noises weren't important or enjoyable. In a former life, the life before Thérèse, he had spent long hours on his own, both playing and listening to music. Classical; Jazz; Blues, all were important to him. At other times, he valued the silence after returning from some mission where he had been beaten, blown up or just talked at by some tedious person for hours and hours.

Now, he had to somehow mix his musical tastes with hers, just like his record collection was now interspersed with Country music, Simon and Garfunkel, the Walker Brothers and Joni Mitchell. He also had to accept that silence was less easy to obtain in a shared life. Not that Thérèse didn't understand his need for it, or even desire it for herself. The first time he had found her sitting cross-legged in the back room he hadn't realised what she was doing; he had then understood, by watching her, the nature of interior silence. In return, she had learned to leave him when she found him lying on the bed or on the green antique sofa in the front living room, frozen in rigid stillness.

Music though, live music, was something which bound them together and enriched their marriage. He had listened to her playing and singing, but she had only heard him play occasionally, and never on the instruments that Tess had carefully collected and hung all over the wall of the back room. He began with the piano, then saxophone, oboe and finally worked his way round her collection of guitars, lutes and banjos, Therese sometimes playing with him, often just lying on the sofa or the floor, listening, then hugging him and applauding his talent. He had stood behind her while she tried to play his sax, his arms round her waist, kissing her neck until she had put it down, and they had laid on the rug together, the music put aside for a while.

The first month of their married life was spent at home, while Illya adjusted himself to what he hoped might be the pattern of the rest of his life.

First it was food; he had to admit that he couldn't be bothered most of the time, so had eaten at work, or gone out. Now, eating became a long, pleasurable activity. They ate alone together, Therese producing food he had only sampled in Mediterranean restaurants; or in response to frequent begging, cooking traditional English dishes that he remembered from University days. Dishes like Jam Roly Poly; Toad in the Hole, Spotted Dick; _please don't repeat that name to Napoleon,_ Steak and Kidney pudding, and of course Lob Scouse – he loved every one of the dishes she put before him. On some evenings, he would take her out for a meal; Italian, Thai, Japanese – there were so many places to try, the experience of doing it together wonderful in itself. However, Therese's favourite activity, it seemed, was to entertain. His mother and Peter; Napoleon and Jo; Sabi; Gabi, the Waverly's; the list was long.

This was another astonishing thing. She appeared to have innumerable friendships. Illya walked in regularly to a new sea of faces, whether it was the guys she played with in a band, church groups, book clubs, even knitting clubs, or her dance friends, who had mistaken him for the gardener.

'Who's that guy in your garden, Tess?', he had overheard one asking from the open French windows one afternoon when he was obediently carrying out her instructions. He was busy planting a small orchard of fruit trees which he had forbidden her to do 'for obvious reasons'. They had all rushed out of the house and surrounded him, one very forward young woman commenting 'nice butt' before Thérèse, barely suppressing a grin, had informed them who he was. They seemed unabashed, dragging him back into the back room with them, the fruit trees left until they had finally gone home.

Even shopping took on a new dimension. She started taking him with her to buy food, a clever psychological ploy he thought; then moving on to objects for the house, and finally clothes. The seal of ultimate approval was gained when he managed to buy her something personal of the right size, on his own. He remembered her pleasure, thought this might be useful to get round her, and it usually was.

Work was a harder adjustment, as they knew it would be. When he was at home, Illya helped Therese with developing photographs she had taken. It became a quiet shared activity, little being said as the shiny paper took on images of places and of people connected to them. To begin with, the memory of her first pictures of him rose up like a ghost to haunt them, but gradually, it was replaced by other, happier images. One day, she showed him the National Geographic edition connected with the Ukraine, holding his hand tightly as they stared at the pages together. Then she had smiled, rather wickedly.

'You look pretty fit in that one – 'fit' as in 'I fancy you' she said, 'sexy haircut, eh? Shows up your pixie ears.' He had taken the magazine, banged her gently over the head with it, and put it away.

He found it surprisingly difficult to cope with her being away; something he hadn't expected. A week after the wedding, she told him she was going to Maine.

'It's just a short piece on the last remaining Shakers' she said, as she transferred several rolls of film from the fridge to her silver case. 'I've left you this to help you cope'.

'What do you mean, cope?' he said, archly.

'You know what I mean, _amado_ ' she said, not looking up.

On the paper were written the three days she would be away; on each day, the place where he should eat.

'What's this, Tuesday night, 'La Lucerna'?' he asked, thinking he'd heard the name before.

'It's the restaurant that Carmela and her husband own; you know, Frankie's sister?' she replied, still packing. 'Carmela said she'd feed you if you don't go too late'.

'You know Carmela?' he said, leaning against the wall, running his hand through his hair.

'I know all the Portellis. Carmela is my age, but I know all the children, and Rita and Frank of course'. Just the name was enough to freeze the expression on his face. She looked up.

'Yes, I know about you and Frank. Really, Illyusha, he is lovely; you just haven't got on the right side of him. Anyway,' she said, getting up and coming over to him, grabbing his head and pulling him close, 'you've got Frankie now, I hear, so you're safe. Now, don't forget to iron your shirts, like I showed you, and don't find someone else to do it'.

It was different when he went away, because she didn't know where he was going and he knew from her face that she was uncertain of how he would return. The second week he went away. He wished he could have told her it was only on a training exercise with the new agents. She hid in the darkroom while he was packing, then, forcing back the tears, slammed the door and came downstairs. He looked at her, standing in the doorway, as he finished putting his clothes in the bag.

'You can't get like this every time I go away; it's not good for you, especially at the moment' he said quietly, coming over to her. She let him put his arms round her and bring her close to him. She breathed deeply, a long sigh.

'I know, I know' Therese replied. 'Just the challenge of living with UNCLE's finest, I guess'.

He returned three days later, a little battered and bruised, wondering how she would be. He could hear the music even before he opened the door.

An incredible noise boomed out of the back room as he walked towards it. Therese, with her hair put up in an amazing pile on top of her head, was dancing head to head across the floor with Frankie, her hair in an equally amazing pile, earrings swinging jauntily from side to side, as she gyrated backwards and forwards. He recognised the song. ' _My baby does the hanky panky'_. He put down his bag, enjoying the spectacle, until they finally noticed him.

Therese's face broke into a huge grin and she ran towards him, Frankie shouting and waving above the music. When he could make himself heard, he whispered in her ear,

'Is this appropriate behaviour for a married woman in your condition? And just what have you done with your hair?'

Later, after Frankie had gone, she took him upstairs and tried to repair the damage to his bruised body. It was certainly worth getting knocked about a bit for.

Frankie had become a regular part of their life. She appeared after school every Thursday, and Illya and she sat at the kitchen table talking and scribbling things down, that Therese looked at with incomprehension. Then afterwards, she and Therese cooked up vast quantities of food for the three of them. Frankie had worked hard and even took away homework when Illya was away. His hair remained untouched, for the moment.

'After the honeymoon' he promised her, hoping it would buy him time.

**xxxxx**

On Illya's first day back after the wedding, Napoleon decided to make a detour from Chelsea, where their apartment was, down to the Village, to pick him up. He wondered himself why he was doing this, but, as he had explained to Jo, it might make things easier. For who, he wasn't quite sure.

'You're a soft …'

'lad?' he finished, watching Jo pack her briefcase. She looked up at him sharply.

'You'd rather go right down there to come back up to the office, rather than come in with me' she said, smirking. 'If we hadn't spent the night doing what we were doing, I'd be jealous of him'.

They had kept the engagement unannounced until after 'the wedding of the century' as Jo called it, had taken place, but he supposed people at work would probably be putting two and two together, judging by the amount of time he had 'called in' to the legal department since she had started work there. As he parked the car in front of the house at Grove Street, he wondered if it was going to be different now. They most certainly would be facing a major mission soon, if the notes Waverly had sent him were anything to go by. And he knew that Illya was hiding something from him.

The meeting with Waverly was not scheduled for two days, so there was time for them to finish the report relating to Fetting, and for Illya to keep some appointments that had been made for him in his absence by their new P.A., Connie. Napoleon watched his partner closely. He concluded that, as far as office life went, a married Kuryakin was a lot more laid back than the unmarried one had been. He had even smiled at Marlene in reception, and hadn't raised even an eyebrow when Connie had placed a fitness schedule for the next five days in front of him, and even more surprising, his medical appointment.

The meeting with the new agents was another matter. It was supposed to be a social occasion for rookies straight from Survival School to meet with older, more experienced colleagues. There had even been talk of assigning 'mentors' to each agent, an idea which when suggested to Illya the year before, had been met by a blank stare of incomprehension. Now, he seemed to be positively enjoying the prospect, chatting and smiling with Sabi and April in Waverly's office before they arrived.

There were six of them, four men and two women. Solo worked out as soon as they came in, that they had probably been talking about Kuryakin, and that they were still talking about him now. Illya didn't appear to notice, but it soon became apparent. The main protagonist appeared to be a tall, dark-haired American called Darryl Moore, abetted; it seemed, by a hard looking blonde called Jordan. He was the epitome of the word 'regular' Napoleon thought; regular looks, regular haircut, regular mind. Napoleon could see him moving towards Illya, looking for an opportunity to speak.

'Congratulations, Mr Kuryakin. I guess you'll be letting us take the strain for you now' he said, looking at the others. Illya frowned. Napoleon could see the signs of annoyance beginning to show, in the tight line his mouth was beginning to form.

'And why would that be?' Illya replied gently. Obviously Moore could not read the signs, for he blundered straight on.

'Well, you've got domestic commitments now' he replied, 'I guess the wife will want you back every evening for dinner and TV'. He looked round. The room had suddenly quietened, got a little colder. Napoleon went to reply, but a tug on his arm prevented him. Sabi was standing just behind him.

'Let him deal with that _boy_ himself, darling', she whispered.

Jordan had joined in. 'I guess your residency position in the U.S. is safe now, Mr Kuryakin. You can take a back seat and enjoy the lab'. Illya's eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

'Miss Lawrence, I'm gratified that you are so concerned about my alien status in your country, but for your information, my application for citizenship was accepted some time before my marriage, and has no connection with it, since my wife is not an American citizen. As for taking any sort of inactive role in this organisation, Mr Moore, I can assure you that in future missions where either of you are concerned, I will be in the ' _driving_ seat'; and', he added, 'of course I'll be enjoying my work in the labs, as I am well qualified to do so'.

Napoleon's ribs were dug into, as Sabi stepped forward. She gave Jordan a withering look and linked her arm into Illya's, giving him a big kiss on the cheek.

'You look wonderful, darling! Are you going to show these children how it's done in the gym too? I'd love to join you', she added, looking straight at Jordan.

'I'd be delighted' Illya said. 'But I better ring the wife first, to see if I'm allowed'.

**xxxxxx**

They met again at Illya's mother's wedding of all places. It had taken place at the Ukrainian church she attended, with just a few guests in the beautiful atmosphere that Illya thought these churches seemed to retain, as if the prayer and worship experienced within, lingered and consolidated in the building. Illya had arranged to bring his mother to the church from the brownstone house they lived in on the Upper West Side. He had worn the same suit he wore to be married in; with Therese in a beautiful silk shift dress that he thought his sister-in-law might have had a hand in buying.

'Very Jackie Kennedy' he had said to her when she appeared, a little pill box hat on top of the rather smoother hairstyle than he had seen her sporting on the 'hanky panky' evening.

He arrived at the house as Peter, and his best man, Brian Pierce, one of the UNCLE surgeons, were leaving for the church. Illya remembered Pierce vividly, from the time when he poured Hydrogen Peroxide into an infected wound of his that wouldn't heal. He tried not to glare at him, remembering the occasion. His mother had looked so happy, a lump had risen in his throat, and he had sworn that he would try very hard to cooperate with Peter, as long as it didn't extend to anything medical. He sat down in their living room, waiting for her.

Illya hadn't been in this room since they had re-decorated, very soon after his mother and Peter had decided to marry. It felt extremely welcoming and comfortable, an interesting mixture of Scottish and Ukrainian, although he supposed his mother must have got hold of some of the things in New York. He thought of how little she had been able to bring with her. However dreadfully the year had started, it was ending well – marriage; a new country; a new life.

He got up and stared at the photographs on the mantelpiece. As expected, the little boy with the neckerchief was there. He cringed at the memory of the huge version of this photo hanging in the UNCLE commissary. Then the picture of his father, with some others of the three of them, taken before the war destroyed their family, and so many like them. Unexpectedly, he felt a deep sense of loss for the father he had no memory of, except in these pictures and the shared memories of his mother. The thought of his child not knowing him suddenly worried him. Should he continue in UNCLE, or look for something safer, more stable, for them?

'He did what he thought was right, and you need to, too'. His mother's voice from just behind him made him jump momentarily. He hadn't even noticed she was in the room. He turned round to face her.

She was wearing a pearly grey dress and jacket, which seemed to accentuate the blueness of her eyes. She had had her hair cut into a more modern style, which made her look younger, and even more like him, he thought. She stroked his head, as she had done when he was a child and was worried about something.

'Illyusha, as I said,' she began again, 'your father died doing what he thought was right. You are like him. You need to do what you think is right, not what is safe or secure. Evil will still come to us, even if we try to hide from it, and even pretend it doesn't exist. If you think what you are doing is right, then you will be doing what is right for your family too. Besides,' she added with a smile, 'you have a wife who is praying for you; that will be your most powerful weapon'.

Illya smiled and hugged her. He had ceased to be amazed at how she could read him long ago, and he realised that he had missed her for it.

'Now' she said, 'I think you should escort the bride to her wedding, don't you?' She looked at him, and then her face changed slightly. 'Just a minute, wait here' she said. He stood there, wondering what on earth the problem was now. He could hear her go up the stairs, then return a few seconds later, holding something in her hand. 'Sit down Illyusha. You always managed to look wild, however hard I tried' she said, pushing him onto the sofa. She was holding a comb, which she proceeded to drag swiftly through his hair, ignoring his pleas. Illya sighed. Sometimes it was not possible to be more than five years old in one's mother's eyes, he thought.

The reception was held at a hotel the office used for these sorts of occasions, and the room had the advantage of wonderful views of the Manhattan skyline. Illya noticed immediately that Moore and Lawrence had been invited, by whom, he couldn't imagine, as they hadn't attended the wedding.

'Your step-dad invited them, in one of his magnanimous moments after a medical' Napoleon murmured in his ear. 'I don't think they've cottoned on who the wife is yet, though'.

Illya had somehow managed to become detached from Therese before the other guests arrived, and she was now standing with her sister, talking to Mrs Waverly. He wondered whether she had told Jo about the baby yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darryl Moore approaching the sisters.

Darryl had spotted her when she had come into the room, with that woman from the legal department who seemed to be hooked up with Solo, he thought. She was a real stunner, much better looking than Jordan; anyway he preferred brunettes, although you couldn't really do justice to her hair by calling it simply 'brunette'. He glanced at himself in the mirror by the entrance. He looked good in this suit, and he felt good; taut and well-toned, even though Kuryakin had made him look less than that in the gym. He just put it down to luck, and letting the Russian get the upper hand. He'd bide his time with him until there was another opportunity.

Darryl wondered where 'Mrs Kuryakin' was. He knew it wasn't the German blonde he seemed to be so chummy with; she batted for the other side, he'd been told. He looked round. Over by the bar, a mousy woman was standing with a drink in her hand. She looked slightly overweight, her dress stretched across her hips rather unflatteringly, and her hair curled in a rather tight set. He concluded that that must be her. He had a mental image of them sitting in front of the TV together.

He advanced towards the girl, hoping he could prise her off the other one. Perhaps Solo would come across and take her away, and do them both a favour. She was looking round now, as if she was searching for someone; this was his opportunity. He came up to her, a broad smile on his face.

'Hi', he addressed Jo, 'I think we've met in Legal, haven't we, but I haven't had the pleasure …' Jo gave him a brief look of annoyance, as if he had been a fly that had settled on them and needed to be swatted off.

'Josefina McCaffery. My sister,' she said, turning back to continue her conversation. To her surprise, Moore grabbed Therese's arm and propelled her into the room, away from the others. Therese allowed herself to be led. When they were at a sufficient distance from Jo, he began.

'Have you come with your sister?' Before she could answer, he continued to speak, telling her about himself. He had only just joined UNCLE, but of course he couldn't tell her exactly what department he was in, or what job he did.

'Otherwise you'll have to kill me?' she said innocently. This could turn out to be fun … for a while. She looked round surreptitiously for Illya. She realised that this man was the person her husband had described to her in not very flattering terms the other night, when they were standing in the shower together, Therese trying to wash his hair while he tried to make love to her at the same time.

Darryl laughed, rather too heartily, she thought.

'No ma'am, I wouldn't want to do that to someone as pretty as you, would I now?' he asked. He thought he was doing quite well with her. She seemed pretty keen, her topaz eyes looking up at him with interest.

She told him that she was a hairdresser, but she'd love to be a model. 'I didn't really work very hard at school' she lied, enjoying herself more and more; 'I thought that if I came to New York, I might meet someone famous and be discovered'. He looked as if he might come on to her now; he was moving closer. She glanced round him; rescue was at hand.

'What did you say your name was? Perhaps we can swap telephone numbers' he said smoothly, fumbling in his trouser pocket for a pencil.

'Her name is Therese Kuryakin, and if you want her telephone number, I'd be pleased to give it to you', Illya said from behind him. Darryl froze, spinning round to face the inscrutable expression of the Russian agent.

'I was wondering where you were, darling. Having a nice chat with Mr Moore?' he said, trying hard to keep the grin from his face. She came round and grabbed his arm.

'Yes, lovely. Perhaps we'll meet again soon, Mr Moore.' They walked away, Therese smiling, looking over her shoulder at Darryl Moore, rooted to the spot; Illya looking at her quizzically.

'What did you tell him?' he said. 'I do hope you haven't been playing with him. He's just a boy after all'.

'Hmm ... he needs to show _my_ boy a little more respect then' she replied, stroking his face gently.

**xxxxxxxx**

Alexander Waverly tugged on his pipe, allowing wreaths of smoke to encircle the room. He had read Kuryakin's report on the whole Ukraine business, and wondered at the morality of what had been done to the Russian agent. Still, he had come out of it with the McCaffery girl at his side, so it hadn't been totally disastrous. Now, it appeared that his partner had also managed to engage himself to the sister. He sighed. When he had told his wife, she had nodded as if it had all been arranged like bricks in a wall. He hoped that they would be as lucky as he had been with Dorothy. Now he had these young bucks to deal with.

He remembered Solo and Kuryakin at the same time in their careers; Solo always at ease with himself and others, especially the women. He'd certainly met his match with that girl. And Kuryakin; he'd taken a huge risk with him, but against the odds he had proved to be a remarkable addition to the Command. Equally remarkable was their partnership. They couldn't be more opposite, but they seemed to have achieved an understanding of each other that he had never seen in any other agents. Perhaps Miss Klose and Miss Tereschenko had come a close second. The ending of that particular partnership had been a tragedy.

He sat forward, rifling through the papers. What next? He smiled to himself. Dorothy had hinted at something, but he hadn't quite been listening. There was enough to worry about in what was in front of him. The intercom buzzed, and Kristianna Blackstone's voice was heard, informing him of the agents' arrival.

They came into the room, quickly seating themselves round the familiar revolving table. Sabi seemed to have adjusted to living in New York; she looked relaxed, her usual smiling self. Napoleon wondered though. The loss of Kat had been so great, and to date, Sabi had not attempted to begin another relationship, preferring to restrict herself to friendships with people like themselves and April.

Vaz looked as lively as usual, his eyes darting round the room, twinkling at the occupants. He was leaning across to talk to Illya, who seemed pretty relaxed, his eyes slightly hooded, fingers steepled. Perhaps he was thinking of his honeymoon.

Napoleon thought of his impending marriage. There had been widespread 'weeping and gnashing of teeth', as Illya had put it, when the engagement had come out; Jo rode the storm well. If he had any doubts, he just had to look at her, be with her for a short time to know he had made the right decision. Not that it would stop him engaging in a little harmless flirtation, he supposed. He could enjoy his engagement; there was no rush.

Kristianna was standing behind Waverly, handing out the papers, before leaving the room discreetly. Waverly allowed them a few minutes to look through them before starting the meeting.

'Miss Klose; gentlemen; I hope you have had long enough to peruse the available information before we begin. Oh, and I think it appears we have more congratulations to offer'. Napoleon was glancing over at Illya when Waverly spoke and saw him jump, the colour filling his cheeks momentarily, only to be fought back when they had all looked at the American.

'Thank you sir; I'll convey your sentiments to Miss McCaffery' he replied. 'Um, can you just excuse Mr Kuryakin and me for a second; we need to check something before the meeting can continue'. Illya looked up amazed, as Solo grabbed his arm and propelled him towards the door, the others looking on with varying expressions of surprise and astonishment.

'Kristianna, can we just have a word alone' Napoleon asked, as the door shut.

'I'll powder my nose' she replied, looking at the expressions on their faces. Napoleon still had hold of the Russian, and turned him round, gently, to face him.

'Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or do I have to beat it out of you?' he said, looking into the familiar face, and seeing a strange mixture of annoyance, and, yes, happiness, there. Illya stepped back, turned away and picked up the phone, dialling an outside number.

'Hello, it's me' he murmured. 'No, well nothing too bad. Um, I think I may have let the cat out of the bag, as it were' he continued. There was a pause. Napoleon could hear the familiar soft tones on the other end of the phone. A smile started to break onto his face. He'd figured it. Illya was continuing to speak, his face slightly flushed. 'It's OK then? _Merci bien, ma petite fleur. Au Revoir'._ He put down the phone and turned round. He realised that he didn't have to say anything from the look on his partner's face.

'Satisfied?' he said, his lips slightly pursed. 'The happy event is in April, as no doubt you will be informing the rest of the office in due course.'

They returned to the table, Napoleon grinning broadly. Before anyone could continue, Illya spoke. 'I'm sorry to hold up the meeting, Sir, for personal reasons, but they may affect my role in the coming mission a little, or … or' he stammered slightly, 'I thought you should know, anyway'.

'Know what, Mr Kuryakin? For goodness sake, get on with it, we have a very full agenda' Waverly exclaimed, with a deep sigh.

'Um, Therese, well, we …' Sabi jumped up out of her seat.

'You're going to have a baby!' she shouted, running to him and planting a kiss squarely on his cheek. 'Oh darling, that is lovely, lovely, _lovely_! she said excitedly, seemingly unaware of anyone else in the room.

'Congratulations, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly said, trying to suppress the smile that was forming; 'now can we return to the agenda?'

**xxxxxxxx**

Illya began with an overview of what had been revealed from the affair in the Ukraine and East Germany. Although Fetting's work had ended with his death, and it appeared that U.N.C.L.E. New York was secure after the elimination of Hannssen and Gilby, there was a distinct likelihood that long-term plans had been made by THRUSH, and were still intact.

'From references made both by Fetting and Carole' Illya continued, 'I am afraid that THRUSH may have hijacked the concept of ' _Lebensborn_ ' and adapted it for their own evil purposes. I would imagine that they have gone beyond the rather limited, and deeply flawed eugenic theory that the Nazis subscribed to, that is, the creation of a 'master race' of blond haired, blue eyed ' _wunderkinder_ ', however attractive some people might think that may appear' he said, smiling and looking at Sabi. Napoleon rolled his eyes heavenward.

' _Deeply_ flawed' Napoleon added. With a big smile at Illya, Sabi continued.

'I've been investigating Fraulein Doktor Engel, Sir' she said, getting some papers out of her briefcase, which she passed round the table to Waverly. Illya sighed. Images of the doctor flooded back into his memory. He didn't suppose she was very favourably disposed towards him, now that he had broken her nose so badly. As if to confirm his memory, Waverly pressed a button, and the screen slid into view, displaying Engel's image. It was immediately obvious that permanent, disfiguring damage had been done to her face. The nose was twisted to the side, with a large, knob-like lump on top. _Not that she had been particularly attractive before Illya had decided to re-model her,_ Napoleon thought. Illya looked across at Napoleon, who was still grinning. Today was going to be unbearable, he thought; well, a little unbearable.

It appeared, according to Sabi, that Winnifred Engel had been involved with dubious organisations from an early age. During the war, she had been an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth, and had been rewarded for denouncing her uncle and aunt to the authorities. She had stayed in Germany; studying medicine in Berlin, staying in East Germany after the Russians had arrived. She had soon gravitated towards the STASI organisation, working at interrogation centres like Hohenschönhausen. But according to David Mueller, she had now left East Germany and the STASI. But where she was, nobody knew.

'How is David Mueller involved?' Illya asked, frowning. Sabi passed him a piece of paper, a report. On the top was his name, followed by his title; Head, UNCLE Germany. It was Illya's turn to raise his eyes.

'I hate to mention it again, darling' she said, looking fondly at him, 'but, as I said to you before, I now have definite proof from David, that your former fiancée, that _frightful_ woman Fedorenko, is now on the payroll, as Dr Engel's assistant'.

'Let me make this clear' Illya replied tersely, 'I, or rather Valentin as I was, was _never_ engaged to that woman, nor did we have any sort of relationship of a sexual nature, apart from in her fertile fantasies'. Whenever he thought of their relationship, which wasn't very often now, it was with the feeling of humiliation at her hands. He really did hope they wouldn't have to meet again, but somehow, he thought that was unlikely.

Now it was Vaz's turn. He had spent a considerable time working out of the Madrid office, checking any intelligence which might relate to the setting up of an alternative 'community' of any sort, listening to, and reading an endless list of messages intercepted from THRUSH stations across Europe. His opposite number in Madrid, Diego Torres, known as the 'Spanish Napoleon Solo', had helped him to collate the information, showing him the nightlife of Madrid as a blessed release from the mountain of paperwork they spent every day trawling through. Eventually, Torres and Vaz had concluded that the only intelligence which seemed to even vaguely have a connection with any _lebensborn-_ type community, pointed to two things; that it was in a hot climate, that is Southern Europe, rather than Northern Europe or Scandinavia, and that it was centred on an island. THRUSH was obviously making very sure that the community was not going to be found. However, although they had gained little headway on its geographical position, they had learnt much about THRUSH's intentions, which he had shared with Napoleon.

'It seems', Napoleon began, 'that both Cal and Carole were products of the initial phase of this programme, namely the taking of babies and children from homes in Eastern Europe, mainly Poland, although other countries were involved.' He glanced across at Illya, but he was looking down, and from the expression on his face, remembering things too painful to share. He continued. 'Some of these children were returned to their parents after the War, but some were never found. We have reason to believe that THRUSH became aware of them, and working with Nazi groups, those children were brought to America and placed with new THRUSH families, who brought them up to serve their own ends. You remember Carole's parents, Illya?' he said, a smile coming to his lips as Illya's account of the treatment he had received at their hands came to mind.

'Yes' he murmured. 'I didn't quite 'fit the bill,' if I remember rightly.'

Napoleon smirked and continued. 'As we know to our cost, some of these 'children' have been used in various THRUSH plots, but it appears that plans are also being made for a whole new generation'. This was something new. Illya and Sabi looked at him curiously, wondering what was coming next. He pulled out a sheet from the set given him by Vaz.

'I don't know if you've been following the news reports over the last few weeks' he said; 'some of us have been otherwise engaged' he added, glancing across at Illya, who returned his look with an acid stare.

'I presume, Napoleon, you mean the disappearance of men who are considered to be in top positions in the world of science, law, politics and business' Illya interrupted, 'and their rather mysterious re-appearance again a day or so later. 'As a matter of fact, Tess and I often listen to the BBC World Service in be . . ., in our spare time' he added, trying to disregard Napoleon's amused look.

'Get on with it, Mr Solo' Waverly interposed. 'Just what has this to do with the kidnapping of children and Dr Engel?' Sabi spoke next, rather quietly.

'Dr Engel's fields of interest are first and foremost what one might call 'psychosurgery', that is surgical intervention to alter the behaviour of the brain, but, of course, she is well known in THRUSH circles for her skill in the use of surgery for torture'. Illya's mind immediately pictured the neat row of surgical instruments laid out at the clinic in East Berlin, and he considered himself lucky to escape their touch.

Vaz added one final, chilling fact.

'I'm afraid, Sir, that Diego has since sent me some very disturbing intelligence from the Western Mediterranean area around Spain and the Balearics. Apparently, children have also been disappearing from their homes. But, unlike the men, they haven't re-appeared'.

Illya felt cold. The excitement he had felt in being able to share his news with the others, despite the risk of being unmercifully teased by Napoleon, had evaporated in the light of this latest revelation. There was a long silence while they all drew the inevitable conclusions from the evidence they had heard.

Waverly stood up, his pipe in his hand, long since extinguished. He gazed out onto the East Riveré, sparkling now in the early autumn sun.

'It appears' he said, 'that a new, long-term programme is being put into place by our friends at THRUSH Central. Someone has decided that a new generation of world leaders needs to be created'.

'They might very well be adapting the Nazi eugenics programme to somehow breed a new generation, presumably using some sort of genetic material from the missing men without them knowing it' Illya said.

 _Well, I can guess what that genetic material might be,_ thought Napoleon.

'Apparently, they have no memory of where they went, and there are no obvious surgical scars on them' Illya added.

'And I suppose' Sabi continued, 'that that horrid, so called _Doctor_ is contemplating doing something frightfully cruel to the little ones that are born'.

'So that's why she needs the other children' Vaz contributed, 'presumably she's doing a few little experiments just to get her techniques up to spec, before she sticks her knife in the ' _wunderkinder_ '. I read something about that 'psychosurgery' claptrap' he said. 'Apparently some quack claimed they could alter people's personalities with it'.

Illya interrupted him. 'Vaz, it's not all 'claptrap', but sadly, you are near the truth. I imagine that some experiments have been conducted on the children to see whether certain 'undesirable' emotions can be eliminated'. Waverly returned to the table, gathered up the papers, and sat down.

'Mr Solo and Mr Fernandez, you need to go back to Madrid and link up with Mr Torres. See if you can find out if there are any islands where someone has a private estate or such thing. I would imagine that they would need both space and privacy to set up something on this scale'. He turned to Sabi. 'Miss Klose, perhaps you wouldn't mind going back to Germany to work with David again, since you seem to get on quite well. We need to know more about THRUSH Northern Europe's involvement in all this'. Sabi nodded happily. Illya waited, his brow furrowed.

'Mr Kuryakin, you of course are due to go on your honeymoon tomorrow, so we do not expect you to be 'on duty' as it were. However, since you are going to a Mediterranean island in the target area, I wondered whether, if you became aware of anything suspicious, you might be able to contact us regarding it'.

 _I don't believe it,_ Napoleon thought. _He'll be asking him to write a report of what they got up to next._

'Yes sir, I'll do my best to keep an eye out for any abnormal behaviour' the Russian replied, glancing at Solo.

**xxxxxxxx**

As they waited for the lift, Napoleon stared at his colleague.

'You don't seriously listen to the World Service in bed, do you, comrade?' He whispered, as the air took a temperature dive around them.

'And would I tell you anything we did in bed, Napoleon?' he replied.

'You might' Solo answered, in a hurt voice. Illya shook his head and got in the lift.

As Illya guessed, it only took till lunch time for the news to circulate. And the more enterprising ones among them had worked out the approximate date of conception too, by the time he reached the Commissary for a cup of tea. Still, Betty behind the counter had somehow produced a very large cake for him to have with his tea, so it couldn't be all bad, he thought. Frighteningly, they had already started a book on the name and the weight. He went home to tell Therese that the favourite names were Boris or Olga. She loved them, much to his utter consternation.

**CHAPTER 2**

Therese gazed out of the window as the pressure in her ears alerted her to the descent of the plane towards the land she considered to be at least partly home.

They had spent the first three nights in Madrid, where they had booked a room at a hotel near the Prado Museum. She was longing to look at the pictures she loved again, but now with the man she loved, to share it with. His knowledge of art, or even his interest in it, was, like so many things, unknown to her. She had gazed at him intently on the long journey from New York, still marvelling that she had married a man about whom so much was still a mystery to her, and now, astonishingly, whose baby she carried inside her. But it was the same for him too, she guessed. Every day he seemed to spend at least some minutes looking completely amazed, baffled or just delighted by the whirlwind he had allowed to enter his life.

The days in Madrid had been so wonderful, she had to constantly remind herself they were really happening, and not some wild dream she would wake from at any minute. Illya had seemed so happy and relaxed; he had helped her unpack the things they needed for this short stay, accepting the clothes he found in the case without comment, except to apologise to Therese for not being able to help her prepare for the holiday.

They had gratefully slept in the first morning, but after that, the great city was waiting for them, like a vast Pandora's chest that they, like two little children, were about to open. Every day, it felt as if she was discovering something new about him that was endearing and startling in equal measure. He loved pasta, motorbikes and Fellini's films. He needed to run at least once a day, and would wear all sorts of hats, depending on his mood. He was addicted to ice-cream, jazz and Therese's breasts, but not in that order.

'You won't be able to do this soon, otherwise you'll get a mouthful of something you hadn't bargained for' she whispered in his ear, as he lay there in his usual position one morning.

'Mm. I'm beginning to feel jealous of my own son already'. She turned over, pushing him off.

'Your _son_. You know something I don't, _amado,_ or are you just an old-fashioned chauvinist at your Russian heart?' she replied, rubbing his bristly chin with her hand.

'Well I ... er … well there is a fifty per cent chance of me being right, and there are a lot of boys in my family' he said, eyes widening.

'And that is supposed to be a mathematical approach to the likelihood of us having a son' she laughed. 'You've been spending too much time with Frankie'.

As she soon found out he knew a little about art, and was happy to know more, if she was doing the telling. After plastering him with suntan lotion, they headed for the museum, arm in arm, laughing and talking together as they sauntered along the broad sunlit streets. She knew the museum well, and led him to her favourite painting.

The room was cool and quiet as it was still early, and the new school year had begun, reducing the number of tourists in the gallery. Illya gazed at some of the paintings; great Spanish masterpieces of exquisite skill and vision. Therese stood in front of one, and he suddenly recognised her Spanish beauty in the figures represented behind her.

'This is my favourite. ' _Las Meninas_ – The Maids of Honour'. She stared intently at the large painting in front of her, and then turned to him, her eyes sparkling. She pointed at the little girl in the foreground. 'This is the Infanta Margarita, the one with hair like yours, and look, you can see the King, Philip IV, and his queen reflected in the mirror, as if they are standing where we are now, looking at their daughter. And this', she added, 'is the painter, Velazquez, making the picture. Isn't it wonderful? It has the quality of a photograph, don't you think, look at the way they are all looking in different directions; just as if they were caught in that moment'.

'Margarita is a pretty name. She looks quite knowing to me, as if she could be quite a handful' he said, squeezing her hand.

'You're getting into it' she said. 'Whoever said art history is boring?'

That evening, as they were sitting outside the hotel having a glass of dry sherry and some tapas, ' _this is Spain, and you will have to learn what proper sherry is, not that sweet stuff people in England drink'_ , Illya was aware of not being alone any more. He had bought Therese a new necklace, and he was putting it round her neck, Therese holding up her hair on top of her head while he fiddled with the tiny catch on the delicate jewellery, taking the opportunity to kiss her neck, while she laughed softly at his caress. He froze as he became conscious of three pairs of legs standing near.

' _Buenas tardes, Senores. Que tal?'_

Illya's head jerked back and he spun round, jumping to his feet, to find himself eyeball to eyeball with his partner. Therese lay back in the chair laughing.

Illya sighed.

'What do I have to do to evade your constant interruptions into my life' he murmured from between tight lips.

'And hi to you too, comrade. Thought we'd take you out on the town, since you wouldn't allow us to, before the event of the century' Napoleon replied, throwing himself down in one of the chairs next to Therese. She leaned across and kissed him, then jumped up and hugged Vaz. Illya moved across and put his arm round his wife's shoulders, glaring somewhat good naturedly at Napoleon, lounging in the chair.

'Therese, may I introduce you to the third member of this little unholy trinity. My colleague, Diego Torres. Diego; my wife, Therese'.

Therese could see why he was called 'the Spanish Solo'. He was tall and slim, but strong looking, with short dark hair; immaculately dressed in what she guessed was the latest 'Italian' style in suits.

Illya could see immediately that Diego was taken with her. Illya looked at her again. Since he had first seen her, walking along the street only seven months before, a lifetime had passed, and the girl that he saw that morning now was a woman; intrinsically the same, but now different in subtle, mysterious ways. _More elegant, older,_ he thought, _still with a lot of the old ways in her_.

She unwound herself from Illya's arms, and linked arms with each of her very willing consorts standing either side of her.

'You dancin'?' she said to Vaz and Diego, eliciting astonished stares from both. Illya shook his head.

'Don't worry. All you have to say now, to have your wicked way with her, is 'You askin?' he said, with mock despair.

'You askin'?' was the very loud reply from both men.

They set off down the street, the unlikely trio in front, laughing and chatting, and the two 'old men' as Torres described them, bringing up the rear. Napoleon tried to keep off the subject of work, but inevitably it crept into the conversation, 'it' being the reason he was disturbing their honeymoon in the first place, as Illya complained throughout the walk to the restaurant.

'And please don't mention or even hint that Waverly has asked me to be 'on the lookout' for mysterious goings-on, on lonely islands', otherwise I'll be sleeping on the couch in her Uncle's living room when we get to Mallorca' he said.

'Would I?' Napoleon answered, smirking. He did feel rather guilty at doing this to him, but Diego would not shut up about meeting them, claiming that he couldn't believe the Russian was married, never mind about to be a father.

The restaurant was small and intimate, serving wonderful Spanish dishes together with heady red Spanish wines to compliment their spicy earthiness. Despite his initial complaining, Illya found his appetite growing, and with Therese and Diego's guidance, he managed to consume a vast quantity of regional specialities, to the delight of the chef, a friend of Diego's.

Towards the end of the evening, as they sat outside on the terrace at the back of the restaurant drinking coffee and Sambuca, Napoleon noticed a small group of women sitting at a table on the far side; one in particular stood out. Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon guessed her to be of mixed race, possibly Chinese or Japanese and European or Caucasian American. She was very tall, reminding him of Sabi; there the resemblance ended. She was dressed in a very tight fitting black jacket and trousers, which accentuated her figure, with rather unusual, heavy spiky jewellery, which looked almost vicious compared to the delicate necklace round Therese's neck. Her hair, jet black, was very short, plastered down by a shiny gel, giving her head a look of wet fur.

She was staring, but not at him. He decided it must be Illya who was the object of her attention. She continued to stare at him, appearing to be making an appraisal, before turning to her companions, and saying something which Napoleon didn't like to imagine.

'I think you've got an admirer' he whispered as he dug Illya in the ribs and motioned in her direction with his eyes. Illya glanced towards the table.

'Not my type' he replied, raising his eyebrows a little. 'I don't like the thought of what that thing round her neck might do if one got too close'. He leaned across to play with Therese's hair, as if to mitigate the effects of this unwelcome attention. When Napoleon looked round again, she had gone, leaving her companions drinking at their table.

Therese got up and spoke to the waiter, who disappeared into the restaurant. She walked back to the table.

'I've ordered a taxi to take me back to the hotel. You boys go and enjoy yourselves' she said, smiling at them all. 'Olga and I need a good night's sleep'. Illya got up and put his arm round her waist.

'Go on' she murmured in his ear, 'have fun, but don't drink too much – your liver has only just recovered after your little sojourn in your native land'. He kissed her, then turned to see the other three standing watching.

'We'll have to think up some new names for you now, O former King of Siberia' said Diego.

'How about, 'Red hot papa?' Napoleon replied.

**xxxxxxxx**

Illya woke up as the plane made its final descent. She had known he had returned to the hotel room from the thump which woke her, as he fell over the chair at the end of the bed. Eventually she had managed to divest him of his clothes and get him into bed, where he instantly fell into a heavy sleep replete with gentle snoring. She turned over and looked at him, splayed out on the bed beside her, his hair now in an unruly mop across his face. She pushed it back and stroked the sleeping head, thinking that she would sort out Napoleon when she saw him again.

Remarkably, he had woken early the next morning, apparently none the worse for his delayed Stag's night, and, dragging on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, had gone out for his usual run before breakfast. However, as soon as the plane had taken off from Barajas airport, he had leaned over towards her and, with his head on her shoulder, had fallen instantly asleep again.

The little airport at Palma was in a state of transition to something bigger and better. The advent of mass tourism was affecting the island and Therese hoped that the new prosperity so desperately needed, would not result in a corresponding environmental disaster. She had spent practically every summer of her life in this place. Her Mallorcan relatives had not been able to come to New York for their wedding, and were now eagerly expecting them. Therese wondered exactly what the nature of the welcome might be.

'My brother is coming to meet us; he's staying with my uncle Tomas and Aunty Francisca at the moment while he decides what to do with himself' she said, smiling. Illya had heard about Fernando, the youngest of the McCaffery children, at the wedding, mainly in despairing terms from Jo.

'Fernando – what can I say? He's just finished University at Oxford with a first in modern foreign languages. He's a rugby blue, star of the Air Training Corps, and he's fit, as in sex-bomb fit, if you get my drift' she said, sighing. 'However, he now tells us that he's taking a year off to evaluate his life, so he's gone to Mallorca to find himself' she sighed, raising her eyebrows. Therese had been more charitable about her wayward brother, but Illya could see that he was a puzzle for this high-achieving family. He felt sorry for him.

He spotted Fernando immediately they cleared immigration. He was yet another variation of the McCaffery family Irish-Spanish mix. Illya thought he looked more like Jo than the twins, but he could see why Jo had described him in the way she did.

He stood there by the exit, looking slightly bored. He was tall, with a strong muscular frame, his naturally sallow skin deeply tanned from spending a summer in the hot Mallorcan sun. He had Therese's rich red-brown hair, but curlier and very long, cascading down across his shoulders. He was wearing loose shorts and a faded t-shirt, and his slightly dirty looking feet poked through a very tatty pair of leather sandals. Illya felt faintly jealous that he could choose how he looked, and was not restrained by the expectations of his superiors, or any formal dress code of their making.

Therese had now seen him, and astonishingly, had put two fingers in her mouth and uttered a long, loud whistle. Fernando looked up immediately and a lovely smile lit up his face. He ran across the arrivals lounge and swept up his sister in his arms, then, seeing Illya, put her down again, very gently, on the ground. They embraced, their combined hair making for a slightly amusing sight; it was difficult to see where she ended and he began, Illya thought.

Eventually, they parted, and he turned towards Illya.

'Nando, this is Illya; this is my husband' she said, rather breathlessly, looking excitedly from the curly-haired brother to the blond, faintly bemused husband. Fernando gave Illya a decidedly critical look, Illya thought. He could tell that 'Nando' thought Illya's linen suit was indicative of something he didn't want anything to do with.

'Illya' he said, shaking his hand less than enthusiastically. 'Did she pick you up on one of her foreign trips?' Illya started to make some caustic remark, but thought better of it. Instead he said, without a trace of irony,

'No, we were neighbours; it just took me rather a long time to realise who I had under me, as it were'.

There was a brief silence between them, and then Fernando burst out laughing, Therese standing between them, blushing and giving Illya a shove in the back.

They walked to the car; telling Fernando about their house and their meeting, leaving the story of the months following, out for the time being. The 'car' turned out to be a rather elderly station wagon, which they managed to squeeze into, Fernando throwing the cases onto the flat bed at the back, much to Therese's consternation. Fernando drove fast bordering on recklessly, out of the airport and northwards towards the top part of the island, and the town of Pollensa.

Illya gazed out of the window, content to allow the brother and sister to chat at top speed Catalan most of the way. Although it was late September, the sun still beat down on the landscape, only the wound down windows of the vehicle making the heat bearable. He was glad they had left it until now to come here. The countryside was decidedly flat and agricultural, with rich, red earth fields on either side of the road, eventually giving way to a more interesting, greener and more mountainous environment as they drove northwards.

Waverly's request came into his mind as they sped along the road. Illya almost prayed that he might find nothing to report, but, judging from the interest of the woman in the restaurant the night before, he considered that unlikely. He hoped that he could at least hide it from Therese. He thought that unlikely too. Still, there was no reason why they shouldn't enjoy themselves, if the relatives would leave them alone, that is.

He looked across at Fernando. He couldn't ever remember feeling that he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. The Soviet system had been too rigid to allow that, and he had dutifully conformed to the school, University, National Service, and then further study route, leading to service of the State, set out for children like him, considered to be 'gifted'. He supposed that his decision to join U.N.C.L.E. was the most unconventional decision he had made, but that too was part of the relentless drive which seemed to fill his life. And now he was suddenly married. Perhaps _this_ was the most unconventional event of his life, he concluded. He wondered what sort of a father he would make. Would his children rebel against him? Probably.

Therese had turned towards him, and he felt her touch his neck, pushing the long hair away from the collar of his shirt.

'Hot?' she asked, looking at him.

'No, I'm fine' he replied, 'I can adjust to warmer temperatures, even with my frozen blood'.

'Funny boy'. She looked round again, and then excitedly gripped his arm.

'Look, darling, we're nearly here. This is the Roman Bridge'.

They drove across the rather small bridge and up through the dusty, narrow streets, swinging up and up until they reached a row of houses right at the top of the town, with a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside. Fernando screeched to a halt outside a large three storied house with blue shutters, simultaneously hooting the horn of the station wagon. Illya didn't need to guess what would happen next.

He opened the door of the vehicle to be almost dragged out by four or five middle-aged women, whom he supposed to be aunts of Therese. They had got him between them, kissing him and touching his hair, whilst talking in Catalan at high speed. He looked vainly for Therese, who had disappeared. He shrugged his shoulders and gave into whatever was going to happen to him. He couldn't really remember later how he had got into the house, or who everyone was. He endeared himself to them immediately by introducing himself to them in the Catalan he had learnt from Therese over the last weeks, to be rewarded by a further round of kissing. Thankfully, the male members of the family had then arrived, order was resumed, and refreshments were served.

Eventually, Therese had fought her way through to Illya's side. She led him away from the crowd gathered in the garden, and he slumped down in a chair in one of the cool dark rooms at the back of the house.

'All right, _amado_?' She had said, stroking his hair. 'They love you' she added. 'They think we will have beautiful, intelligent children'. He looked up at her.

'Don't they know?'

'Don't they know what?' Fernando was standing there in the doorway leading to the garden. Illya and Therese looked at each other.

'Do you want to tell him, or shall I?' Illya said.

**xxxxxxxx**

They had given them a little house at the end of the terrace on the Calle Creus to stay in. Their bags, and a lovely acoustic guitar, had already been taken there by another cousin, and, after a few more kisses, they were left alone. There was a flight of stone steps at the back of the downstairs room, which led to the roof, and this became their favourite place at the end of each day.

For nearly two weeks, it was as if the world of espionage, evil geniuses, torture, and even laboratories didn't exist. Illya could just be Mr Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, of 5 Calle Creus, Pollensa, Mallorca; married to Mrs Marie-Therese Carmel Kuryakin. No security systems, no reports, no medicals, no Waverly, no UNCLE.

The days fell into a deliciously familiar pattern; as the bells of the numerous churches rang in the morning they would get up and spend some time standing under the shower together, eventually washing and dressing. After breakfast, it would be the turn of exploring; the mountains, walking and scrambling along paths by towering views of the exquisite blueness of the sea; the town, idly shopping or discovering hidden places up cool, narrow roads; and then, after a three hour lunch, spending hours lying on the beach in the cooler part of the day, or swimming, pulling each other down under the clear cool water, or taking a little boat out to a hidden cove, then lying in it together, out of sight of anyone.

Fernando had been a regular visitor, bringing them a relatively smart Vespa bike after a few days, that he had borrowed from yet another relative. This became part of the routine; whizzing along mountain roads, Therese's hair flying out behind like a flag at sea; finding secluded monasteries at the top of mountains, where they could sit quietly, his arms round her shoulders, her head on his chest.

In the evening, the Vespa parked at the side of the house and after another, long shower, they would venture forth to the town, spending hours on tapas and long, cool drinks, always ending with the obligatory Margarita served perfectly at the Club de Pollensa, the outside terrace offering them time to sit and watch people in the town square it opened onto.

Then, after slowly walking home, they would undress quickly, enjoying the coolness of the sheets on the bed, and the closeness of their bodies. Therese's skin soon assumed a luminous brownness, whilst, with her vigilance and much covering by lotion, Illya had even obtained a rather healthy looking tan, his hair, growing longer, bleached to a near Sabi-type Nordic blond.

Very early on Sunday mornings, she led him round the extensive markets of the town, culminating in the noisy fruit and flower market of the town square; Therese used her husband, and also Fernando if available, as he usually was, as pack horses, complete with straw baskets, which she filled with an assortment of lemons, olives, very large water melons, wonderful cured ham, and other vegetables, following along behind carrying a large bunch of flowers, which she claimed was all she could manage in her condition.

'Very convenient' Illya muttered to Fernando, as they climbed the steep road to the house.

'She doesn't ever actually give you orders, or even shout' Fernando replied, 'but you still find yourself doing exactly what she wants'. After the food had been put away, they returned to the square to a welcome cup of coffee, then Mass, Therese even persuading Fernando to attend.

'See what I mean?' he said, as he allowed his sister to pull his hair back into a more or less neat pony tail, while he attempted to drink his coffee. She kissed his head lovingly.

'And don't you even think about it' she said, as she finished, looking at Illya, flicking his hair into his face. 'One pony tail's enough in our family, and I've got it'. Fernando leaned forward to Illya.

'Leave her and the kid behind next summer and we can hang out. It'll be long enough if you give it a year's growing time'.

'Chance would be a very fine thing' Illya replied, wearily.

**xxxxxxxx**

Josefina kicked off her shoes. Her feet were swollen, and the air conditioning wasn't making any difference. She made yet another list on the yellow legal pad on the desk. These agents were a liability; trampling across the laws of any country they found themselves in, and expecting her to get them out of the legal mess they usually ended up in. She had already had to visit jails in Trinidad and Venezuela, arguing with pain in the arse officials, and even worse, bigger pain in the arse Consulate officials. She slammed the pad down and poured herself a large glass of water from the jug at the side of the desk.

What was worse, she didn't feel that well, either. Luckily Napoleon had been away for the last two weeks, so she could feel ill in her own home without him making a fuss over nothing. Then there was the wedding. He had brought himself to propose to her; she had the ring on her finger; but further than that, he was taking his time.

She wondered how Goldilocks and Tessy were getting on; Napoleon had gone on and on about the forthcoming birth as if it were the end of the world, listing all the things the Russian wouldn't be able to do once the 'ankle-biter' arrived, as he put it. To his credit, Jo thought, Illya had ignored most of the comments. He seemed absolutely contented with his lot in life; he was obviously very much in love with Tess, and couldn't wait to be a father. They were an altogether different cup of tea to her and Napoleon.

The door opened and Connie put her head through. Her friendship with Connie had surprised many, including Jo herself. She had at first assumed Connie was just another secretary, but she was a lot smarter than Jo had at first taken her to be. Connie had a degree in Business Studies and was working on a Postgraduate qualification. She was an incisive thinker, and had got the better of Napoleon on many occasions in any discussion on world financial affairs. She was looking at Jo now in a rather worried way, her open, American face, frowning.

'Have you been up to Medical yet, or do I have to tell Napoleon to escort you there?' she said, pursing her lips.

'He's not back yet … is he?' Jo replied, sitting up.

'Just walked in, so you'd better get your ass upstairs, pronto' Connie laughed. She walked into the room, which was as well, as she was able to catch her as Jo stood up and promptly collapsed.

She came round much, much later. Her eyes gradually focused on Peter McDonald's craggy face, as he leaned across her vision.

'Well, lassie, you like to give us all a wee shock, don't you now? He said rather quietly, smiling at her. She was gradually aware of the fact that some time had elapsed, and that some procedure had been carried out. The increasingly strong pain that she had felt in her abdomen had been replaced by the rawness of a recent operation wound. Jo's face contracted, her eyes opening and closing.

'What … is going on, Doctor?' 'Why am I here?' she murmured. She was aware then of another doctor, a woman in surgical scrubs, by her side.

'Miss McCaffery, Josefina' she began, I'm afraid we had to carry out emergency surgery. You had a very large ovarian tumour on a pedicle that had twisted and that must have been causing you acute pain. We have had to remove that ovary, and half of the other one. When you are more recovered, we can discuss the implications of this'.

Later, she surfaced again from what had begun to take on a nightmarish scenario. She was in a small room. Napoleon sat at her side, cradling her hand in his. He leaned across and kissed her gently, brushing the hair back from her face.

'And how long has all this been going on? I thought I was the one with the secrets'.

She turned her face towards him, her eyes brimming with tears.

'Go away' she said. 'It's over'.

**xxxxxxxxx**

'Please go and enjoy yourselves, boys; I'd love to join you, but I don't think Boris would appreciate the dive'.

Therese stood outside the house, leaning against the wall. Her back had begun to ache, and in many ways, she was looking forward to having a little time on her own. Fernando stuffed in the rest of the clothes they were taking with them into the seat of the Vespa, while Illya lifted the helmet from the front handlebar. He came over to her and fiddled with the chin strap.

'Only if you're sure' he said softly. 'I don't mind if there's something you'd rather do'. Therese sighed.

'For goodness sake' she laughed, 'stop being so considerate; they won't recognise you when you get back to New York.' She smiled. 'You love scuba diving; it's a wonderful place, and we have to leave in a few days. So please go and leave me alone to my knitting'. She didn't tell him that she had an assignment to photograph the impact of tourism around Palma. What he didn't know, he didn't fuss about. She rammed the helmet on his head and pushed him in the direction of the bike, where Fernando sat waiting. He revved the engine of the bike, and with a backward wave, they were gone.

The Illa de Peronella lay due southwest of the larger island, about two hours by boat from the nearest Mallorcan harbour. Fernando had spent an evening showing Illya on a large map of the area, pointing out the geographical features and explaining some of its history. Therese, lying on the sofa in the little garden at the back of the house, noticed that Illya seemed very interested, asking Fernando detailed questions about the island, particularly about its natural features and its inhabitants. She felt slightly uneasy.

It appeared that the island was an area of outstanding natural beauty. The gently sloping land, leading to the _Puig_ , a fairly mild 'peak' several hundred metres above sea level, was covered in native pine trees, wild olives and juniper, which was the habitat of numerous species of Mediterranean creature. The coastline was a complex series of coves and inlets, with a natural harbour and port, and a dazzling variety of sea life, including dolphins and turtles, which was the reason for its popularity among divers.

'But you have to have a permit to dive, and that's becoming increasingly difficult to get hold of' Fernando explained to Illya . 'However, my man, I have a friend …' and he smiled broadly at the Russian.

'I won't ask if it's entirely legal' Illya replied, frowning. He could feel the communicator in his pocket. Surprisingly it hadn't gone off during the time he was here, and so his little mission hadn't been discovered. Yet. Still, the island certainly looked worth investigating, but he'd have to be careful, with Fernando at his side.

Illya had managed to hint to him that his work was mainly laboratory based, and let Fernando's imagination do the rest. Not for the first time did it occur to him that Fernando might be a suitable candidate for admission into U.N.C.L.E. For the time being, however, he forced the idea to the back of his mind until he could discuss the matter with Waverly. He wasn't even sure whether someone as free-spirited as Fernando could cope with the discipline of the Command.

They arrived at the Port late in the morning. Fernando drove the Vespa at breakneck speed round the streets until they screeched to a halt outside a shuttered house in a broad road just near the waterfront. He banged on the door and was greeted by a dark, middle-aged man with very white teeth, who, after shaking hands vigorously with Illya, opened up the garage to store the bike until their return.

His name turned out to be Junipero, 'after the Saint' he explained, 'Junipero Serra, the Saint of Mallorca, although he hasn't been canonised yet. He's also called 'the apostle of California; that's where he went with the Franciscan Missions'. Illya decided to ask Therese about that later. They followed Junipero to the harbour, where a boat was waiting, with the scuba diving gear already stowed. They threw the things they had brought with them into the boat, and climbed in.

The boat was a fairly traditional fishing craft of the area, about twenty feet long, with a wide deck and wheelhouse, and some shelter from the sun. Illya saw Fernando looking at him with faint surprise, as he arranged his clothing, and checked out the scuba diving equipment. He could see that this didn't really go with his persona of a 'lab rat' that he had been projecting to him so far.

The equipment turned out to be very good, although Illya had brought along his own dive knife, which was superior to the ones laid out with the dive skins and hoods. He knew that Fernando was watching him, and that the questions would soon start coming, particularly when they reached the island.

On the way out, they sat on the benches either side, facing each other; Junipero with his back to them, in control of the boat. Although Fernando knew a lot about the natural features of the island, he appeared to know little about its human inhabitants. However, Junipero proved to be a valuable source of information.

'In the past, Peronella was owned by only twelve families' he shouted above the roar of the engine and the sea; 'but eventually, in the Nineteenth Century, just one family and their retainers lived there, at ' _la casa del Rei'_. You'll see the house on the hill when you arrive. It's typical of its age. They were deeply religious, and built not only an oratory at the Casa, but also a Convent at the far end of the Island'.

'Convent?' Illya asked, thinking he ought to know this sort of information by now.

'Yes, a Franciscan Convent – for sisters; the Poor Clares as they are known. They're still there, Senor, but of course, it's an enclosed community' Junipero added. 'The family eventually grew tired of the isolation of the island and moved away, and the old house fell into ruin, although they did keep on ' _La Masia'_ for a time, as a summer retreat'. Illya frowned at the information so far. It didn't sound like a particularly world-threatening place. An abandoned house, a Villa farmhouse and a convent; not much to go on. Junipero was continuing.

'About ten years ago, the family sold out to an American millionaire'. He made a sound with his teeth which Illya imagined was disparaging. 'They say he made his money with drugs'. Illya stared at him.

'Drugs?'

'I think he means the wicked pharmaceutical industry, don't you Juni?' Fernando interjected, looking at Illya. Junipero nodded. Illya's misgivings about the island began to surface quickly as he digested the last item of information.

'Do you know the name of this American?' he asked, trying hard not to sound too interested. Junipero nodded again, his eyes tightening.

'Si, Senor Kuryakin. His name was Wendell Bolt' he said, pronouncing the words with difficulty. 'But Senor Bolt is dead. It is his daughter, _Li Hua_ Bolt who is the owner now. Fernando noticed that his brother in law looked imperceptibly alarmed at the mention of this oriental-sounding name, and it did sound strange, particularly when Juni was trying to say it, he thought. Junipero obviously had not finished the story yet.

'Senor Bolt was an officer serving with the American Navy in Japan during the Second World War. Before the outbreak of war he had spent some time in Japan, and while he was there, he met a Japanese girl. You can imagine what happened next, Senores. She, like many Japanese girls then, hoped that he would take her back to the United States, but it did not happen. She was thrown out by her family and had to try to survive on her own. Eventually, Bolt got to hear about what had happened. He returned to Japan, but he refused to marry Li Hua's mother, taking the baby only and returning to the United States with her. They say that she had a very strange upbringing, although I do not know about that. However, Bolt never married or had any other children, and when he died, she inherited his entire fortune'.

The image of the woman in the restaurant imprinted itself on Illya's memory. It was almost certainly Li Hua Bolt, but what she was doing there, or why she was so interested in him, he had no idea. Wendell Bolt was, however, familiar to him. He would have to check, but he was pretty sure that Bolt Pharmaceuticals had at least in part funded Gerhard's Fetting's work in Cambridge, which suggested there may very well be a direct link to THRUSH.

The ownership of the island was not absolute. As part of the deeds, Bolt, and his successors, had had to agree not only to allowing a certain number of diving licenses per year, but also, the existence of the convent, and the right of people to make visits to it. Illya decided that it was about time he made such a visit.

'When we arrive at the harbour, they will want to see our diving licences, and we will have to stay on the boat tonight. There are no hotels on the island, and the only other place to stay is the Convent, which is, of course, not open to male residents' Junipero warned, 'although there is a guest house for families of the sisters and those making retreats. The security force at the harbour is, you might say, quite unusual' he added, a smile showing the flashing teeth again. Fernando nodded in agreement. 'You can dive tomorrow morning, but if you want to visit the Poor Clares, you had better go this evening. They will want to know when we are leaving tomorrow'.

Using his powerful binoculars which he had packed, Illya was able to see the island clearly as they neared. The _Puig_ was a definite landmark, rising gently from behind the natural harbour. He could see a road climbing away across the island towards the north, to the convent of the Poor Clares, and to the west, the outline of the ruined Casa del Rei, with the belltower of the oratory clearly visible. A small barracks type building by the side of the road leading from the harbour was also evident, with figures of what looked like security personnel walking up and down outside it.

The harbour was coming up fast now, with the barracks building and its occupants easy to see. There was something about the guards that wasn't quite as normal, he thought. They were all very slim, with black jumpsuits, short boots and military looking haircuts over which they were wearing black baseball style caps. Short barrelled sub-machine guns were casually slung over some of their shoulders, with others just wearing a leather belt with pistol attached. Illya stared, his eyes widening. Without exception, they were all women.

As the boat berthed, and Junipero dropped the anchor, one of the guards jumped across from the harbour onto the deck. She was tall, with dark brown hair and eyes, and a hard, ruthless expression on her face. She gave the three men a cutting look, then glanced down at the scuba gear.

'Licences' she barked, not bothering to exchange any preliminary civilities. Junipero passed her the paperwork, raising his eyebrows at Fernando, who was trying hard to suppress a smile. She checked the paper cursorily and thrust it back at the Mallorcan. 'You are free to dive until tomorrow afternoon. You can stay until five o'clock tomorrow evening. Please make sure you do not overstay your welcome _Senores_. This island is privately owned and is off limits to any other exploration' she added, a hard look confirming her words.

Illya stood up to face her, holding on to the side of the wheelhouse. 'I have a devotion to Junipero Serra, the apostle of California' he said innocently, 'and I would like to visit the Convent to pray before his image'. Fernando looked at him in amazement, and then looked away when he saw the guard's expression. Her face was filled with a mixture of pity and contempt, a sneer extending across her wide mouth as she looked down at the blond man in front of her.

'So, you're a religious maniac like those mediaeval has-beens up there' she hissed at him, jerking her thumb northwards. Illya looked suitably shocked, but decided not to take her on. He thought the term 'religious maniac' would be a good cover for the time being. 'Keep to the road and do not veer from it. By the look of you two, they might ask you to join them' she added, tugging slightly at Illya's unruly hair. For a moment, he really felt as if the gender roles had been reversed. He shook his head.

'Thank you' he replied. 'I'll try to follow your instructions'. She turned her back on him and jumped back onto the harbour, striding back towards the guardhouse by the quay.

The other two men were laughing, making disparaging remarks about the guard and Illya, Juniper even saying that the nuns were probably more attractive than 'that lot' as he referred to them.

'I presume that the guards are from 'La Masia' Illya said, packing the small backpack he had brought with him on the bike. He could see Fernando watching him intently as he checked the contents.

'The girls?' Junipero answered; 'only since Senorita Bolt took over the island, Senor. The only people who come here generally are divers, who don't really bother them because they don't usually venture inland, and a few friends and relatives of the sisters. As you can see, they are very hostile to the convent, and I think they'd like to see it closed if they could; but the Church, unlike the government, cannot be bought by the dollars of Senorita Bolt'. Illya nodded. He swung the backpack onto his shoulder and made to leave the boat.

Fernando put a hand onto his arm. 'You're not going without me, are you, brother?' he asked, grabbing his shoulder bag. Illya turned towards him.

'It might be better if I went alone. For reasons I can't really explain to you at the moment, I need to gain access to this island, and I don't want to involve you in what might be a slightly dangerous little pilgrimage' he replied. Fernando glanced at Junipero, then jumped onto the harbour side. He leaned over and pulled Illya onto the path.

'You've never been here before; I know my way round. And besides, if I don't look after you, man, your 'little flower' will have my guts for garters' he added, giving Illya a real Josefina look. Illya shrugged, and set off, Fernando following.

In the guardhouse, the guard who had boarded the boat picked up the phone on the wall of the reception area. In her hand was a black and white photograph of a man with short blond hair.

'Leaf speaking. Yes, he is here. He has set off for the convent with the other boy. Yes, he's pretty, but not as pretty as the blond. I'm looking forward to it. OK, tell Granite. Leaf out'.

She put the receiver down and went out onto the harbour road, watching the two men walk away into the distance.

**CHAPTER 3**

Li Hua Bolt stood in the workroom part of the extensive sandstone hall on the first floor of the Manor House known as La Masia. She had known the house practically all her life, although her father had preferred the more cosmopolitan atmosphere of Madrid or Palma to this remote Balearic island, with its somewhat windy landscape and monotonous, clanging convent bell sounding out the hours and days. She had been left here for long summer weeks with just the staff of the house, as well as her nurse, Ernesta, to care for her needs. And it was Ernesta who had changed her young ward from the snivelling little child she had been, to the person she had now become.

There was no question that her father would have preferred a son. However, he had returned to the United States with his new daughter in tow. As her father became more and more a remote figure in her life, Ernesta took on the parental role, arranging Li Hua's life down to the finest detail. With Bolt's tacit acceptance, Li Hua was encouraged to think, act and dress more like a boy than a girl; together with that came the subtle, mental influence of the guardian, as she now was, over the child. Ernesta had persuaded Wendell Bolt to provide a tutor for Li Hua, rather than send her to school, and Ernesta had chosen the teacher, a woman called Eden Mitchell. Mitchell was a dedicated single woman with a military background, who immediately fitted in to the household Ernesta was creating.

Wendell Bolt's death, when Li Hua was twenty, and still at University, proved to be the turning point. She was now ready to put the plans she and Ernesta had talked about endlessly over the last few years, into practice. She wandered over to the window to gaze across the estate which circled the house. The hill upon which it sat provided a perfect view of the surrounding countryside, including the roads leading to the house and beyond to the north of the island. She could see the old farm buildings scattered through the estate, now converted for other purposes.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of her medical director.

'Granite, did you know _he_ was on the island?'

It had been Ernesta's idea to adopt the natural names for use on the island. Because of her position in the organisation, the name 'Granite' seemed entirely appropriate; hard, unyielding. The idea had spread to the other members of her staff. However, the names did not extend to Dr Engel, considered to be outside the 'group' that Granite and her mentor had formed at La Masia.

She turned towards the woman striding purposefully towards her.

'Granite. Did you know that he is here – on this island? How did he know about it so soon? _Mein Gott_! That Russian _swein_ gets to know things before we do!

'Yes, I know, but we're not touching him – yet. There is a greater prize than just Illya Kuryakin, Doctor'.

She could see the frustration building on the doctor's face, the fingers of her hands moving in strange, circling movements. She shook her head. This was why she was on THRUSH central committee, and Engel was just a minion, a cog in the wheel. Still, Schleicher had been right when he had said that Engel was highly qualified but also 'without fear or mercy' as he put it. Her experiments on the Mallorcan children had produced some interesting results, and would enable Granite to succeed with her plan within twenty years. By then, she would not just be on central committee; she would be controlling it.

Of course she was grateful for Engel's information about Kuryakin, but even Engel had been surprised by her plan. If she succeeded, she would be rewarded by THRUSH, and Engel and Fedorenko would be able to work out their petty frustrations and revenge on Kuryakin. She thought back to the night she had seen him in Madrid. He was attractive to women she could see, with all that soft hair and fine features. More importantly to her, he was also highly intelligent. But even more delicious and important; he had a wife and unborn child. The woman, Therese, was the object of her interest. Li Hua considered her to be first-rate material; besides, she would now take what had been refused in the past.

Her memory of the day was as vivid as if it had happened the week before. She was sixteen years old, and it was the beginning of another long, hot summer. Apart from occasional excursions to Palma, she had spent the holidays, as she had since childhood, on the island, either studying, or gaining expertise in other areas, like shooting and survival skills, which her tutor was qualified to instruct her in. However, until that moment, she had never been allowed, or even desired to share these activities with another.

On 'the day', as she had called it ever since, Mitchell had decided that she needed further practice in her swimming and snorkelling skills, before learning to dive. Li Hua was already quite skilled, but she accepted the discipline of her tutor and the high targets that she set for her. They hiked to the lighthouse at the south end of the island, as there were particularly fine coves there, where the light in the large cave structures opening to the sea was an intense blue. As they approached the path down to the shore, they could hear laughing.

A boy and girl were swimming about in the sea. They had obviously been snorkelling, as their equipment was on the small beach that lay adjacent to the caves. It was immediately obvious that the girl at least, was naked, which was confirmed, when they swam right into the beach and scrambled up towards their clothes and towels that lay next to the snorkelling gear. Li Hua was transfixed by them. She realised that they must be related. They had the same brown hair shot through with what looked like copper, and as they looked up at the girl and woman, standing on the cliff above them, Li Hua saw the same astonishing orangey brown eyes. There was a moment's hush; then the girl, without any sign of embarrassment, picked up her towel and shouted a greeting to them in Spanish, while her brother rushed to pull his towel around himself.

'What are they doing here?' Mitchell was muttering, and seemed to be about to reprimand the two for being on the beach. But to her surprise, Li Hua had run down the path and was standing talking to the boy and girl. Up close, Li thought they were even more beautiful than she had believed they looked from the cliffs. The girl had undone her plait, and her hair was flowing down her back like a wavy brown river. She continued to stand there with the towel barely held around her, without worrying what the stranger would think.

'Are you on holiday too?' the girl asked suddenly.

'No. I live here. This is my island'. Li Hua was pleased with her reply, and the reaction of both the other children, who simultaneously gaped at her, then looked at each other as if checking they had heard right. The girl, who seemed to do all the talking, continued.

'My name is Therese. This is my brother Gabriel. We just came here for the day. We come here every year, just for the day'. She had continued, telling her quite naturally about their Mallorcan mother, their British father, their other sisters and brother. Mitchell, Li's tutor, had joined them by this time, and had started to talk to Gabriel. It gave her a chance to talk to Therese alone. They sat down on the sand together.

From the beginning, she had wanted this girl for herself. As Therese talked, Li Hua became fascinated by her; her looks, the way she spoke and moved. As Mitchell and the boy drew close again, she begged her to include the two McCaffery children in their swimming party. There was a shout from the rocks which interrupted her thoughts. A man was signalling to them.

'Oh, that's Uncle Tomas. I'll go and ask him if we may swim with you, Li' Therese shouted, running off like a deer up the path, her hair flying behind her. She returned with the uncle, who spoke to Mitchell for a few tense minutes, the children standing together in a huddle. Eventually, it had been decided that they could go, and what time they should meet back at the harbour, for the return trip back to the bigger island.

Li Hua remembered the swim. The twins, as she had now found them to be, had changed back into the swimming costumes they had not bothered to wear before, and Therese had tied back her hair, before putting on her snorkelling mask and flippers. They all walked awkwardly towards the sea, until they were transformed by the water into more graceful creatures, diving and flipping in and out of the mysterious blue light of the lagoon. Mitchell had started to show them some diving techniques, but Gabriel seemed most interested, and the girls soon moved away, swimming until they found a ledge to grab in the cave. Therese had pushed up her mask and taken the snorkel out of her mouth, when Li Hua had grabbed her, pulling her towards her with stronger muscles, and forcing her mouth onto hers. The English girl had jumped back with shock, but didn't cry out or make a fuss.

'No' she had said, 'I don't want you to do that'. She had gathered her things and swam away towards her brother. Ten years had not dimmed the memory of that encounter for Li Hua, nor the rage she had felt at the rejection. She had instantly recognised her in Madrid. And now, she was within her grasp, again.

It was lucky that her mole in UNCLE had just begun work in time to collect the information about Therese Kuryakin. If the baby was a girl, then it would be a double reward – Therese, but more importantly, a daughter. She wondered about the other man with Kuryakin; he was definitely Therese's brother, but her twin? He looked too young. She shrugged. It was enough to have those two, without complicating matters.

'Now doctor, to take your mind off our little Russian friend, perhaps you'd like to show me round the obstetric suite, and in particular, the 'special wing'?' she enquired, her almond eyes narrowing as she smiled. 'Then I have to leave for Palma, to meet up with an old friend'. The German clicked her heels together.

' _Ja bitte, fraulein director.'_

**xxxxxxxxx**

The convent was at the farthest tip of the island, about five kilometres from the harbour. Illya set off at a pace, not wanting to be walking the return route in the dark. Fernando had no difficulty keeping up with him, but as they trekked up the road towards the Bolt farmhouse, he began to wonder how the slight figure who he had been told was a physicist who worked in a laboratory, now appeared to be an extremely fit, resourceful and somewhat secretive man.

After about half an hour, the farmhouse came into view. The main house loomed up above the tree line, being set on a hill with views on all sides. On the lower reaches of the estate, there were clustered a number of long, low farm buildings with white painted walls and pan-tiled roofs. Illya rummaged in his backpack and drew out his binoculars, coming off the road and looking for shelter to make his observation of the estate less obvious. He climbed a small hill and lay in the long grass, scanning the house and the lower buildings. After a while, he pulled out a small camera and took some pictures.

Fernando lay down beside him and, when the photographs had been taken, he pulled Illya over onto his back.

'Right, just what is going on? This is not your usual sightseeing tour is it, and you are not the dull and boring academic that you tried to persuade me you were when I first met you, are you? His intelligent eyes stared candidly at the Russian, challenging him. Illya thought for a few moments.

'I do work in a laboratory, and I have a scientific background' he replied. 'However, that is only part of my work'. He sighed deeply. 'You know that I work for U.N.C.L.E. like Jo, and Napoleon?' Fernando nodded. He had heard about this Napoleon guy from Jo. He sounded the antithesis of everything he held dear.

'Yeah' he said slowly, 'you mean ... you're like working for an international espionage organisation that fights bad people?' Illya grimaced at the facile description, but agreed,

'In a manner of speaking. I'm sorry to have involved you in this, Fernando. Napoleon will no doubt be very cross with me, and of course, we will have to keep our mouths firmly shut when we return to Mallorca'. Fernando smiled sadly.

'It must be a bit of a strain for you keeping it all from her' he said. Illya started to put the equipment back into his backpack.

'Tess understood when we married, that this would be the basis of our relationship' Illya began. 'I think she finds it quite difficult sometimes' he added; 'she is scared about the condition I will return in, each time I go away. I have had one or two minor injuries recently, you see'. He could imagine Napoleon shaking his head at the many understatements he'd just made in the last sentence.

'And talking of Napoleon, I need to speak to him' Illya continued, retrieving the communicator from the pocket of his shorts. Fernando stared at the pen as Illya twisted the control and spoke into it.

'Smart' he said, grinning.

Illya lay back in the grass and waited for the familiar tones. He wasn't expecting the sharpness of the voice that greeted him.

'Solo'.

'Napoleon, is everything alright?' Illya replied. He knew it wasn't, just like his partner had known he was hiding something from him before the holiday.

'Where are you?' Napoleon replied, smoothly ignoring the question. Illya frowned. It was going to be difficult getting the truth out of him from this far away.

'I'm on the island of Peronella. Fernando, Tess's brother, is with me' he replied, looking across at Fernando, who remained fascinated by the communicator. Strangely, Napoleon ignored the reference to Fernando, and also made no cutting comment about Illya fulfilling Waverly's request on his honeymoon. Something was terribly wrong. There was a few moments' silence, before Illya was forced to continue, a gnawing feeling of anxiety building within him.

'Um, I'm reliably informed that the lady you noticed in Madrid, you know, the one with the penchant for spiky jewellery, is none other than Miss Li Hua Bolt of Bolt Pharmaceuticals. She is apparently the current owner of the island, complete with an all-female set of guards, and, by the look of the house, and the estate, something big is going on that she does not want anyone getting to know about'. He almost felt that he was talking to himself. Napoleon had not even reacted to the 'all-female guard' information.

'Napoleon, please tell me what is wrong, or I will ring Jo and ask her to force it out of you'. There was a further silence. In fact, he could have sworn that he had said entirely the wrong thing at that moment. After what felt like an eternity, Solo replied.

'I wouldn't bother. We're no longer, as they say, 'together'. Look, I'll let Waverly know about the island and Miss Bolt. Speak to you later. Solo out'. Illya sat up; staring at the communicator as if it would help him understand what had just been said. He noticed Fernando was staring at it, then at him, too.

'Trouble at mill?' he asked, with a strong northern accent.

'You heard then' Illya replied. 'I'm just wondering what on earth has been going on, and, more importantly, what I'm going to say to Therese'.

He jumped up, dusting down the dirt from his clothes, only to drop down again suddenly, as the unmistakeable noise of a helicopter filled the air. Illya picked up his binoculars and scanned the sky. A small black machine had risen from the other side of the hill, behind the Villa. On the side, the logo of Bolt Pharmaceuticals stood out boldly from the black exterior of the helicopter.

'It appears Miss Bolt has business elsewhere' he commented to Fernando, who was staring at it as if he had never seen one in his life before.

'That is one evil-looking machine' Fernando commented; 'fits in nicely with the girls round here, eh?'. Illya sighed. 'Well, let's hope the girls at the convent are a bit friendlier'.

**xxxxxxxxx**

Therese loaded the familiar silver case into the little car, throwing in a small overnight bag after it onto the front seat. She had persuaded her aunt to lend her the vehicle, and she had then booked herself into a small hotel in the city for the night. She was looking forward to the assignment; a photographic study of the impact of tourism on the little resorts bordering Palma to the south-west of the island. She remembered them well from her childhood as little more than seaside villages. Now, in some of the resorts, a string of faceless hotels were spreading up the coast like a disease. She hoped it wasn't going to be terminal, and that something of the Mallorca she loved would be preserved.

As the little car sped along the road towards Palma, Therese thought about her Russian. Something about the preparations he had made before he left, reminded her of his fastidiousness before going away on a mission from home. He was very good at hiding it behind a façade of relaxed nonchalance, but she was learning to see through the act already. She also knew that he had his wretched pen thing with him. She had been making the bed one morning after a particularly crazy night of lovemaking, the sheets having got themselves into a tangled mess round her, as he had crept out of the room to do his favourite early morning circuit of the streets before breakfast. The communicator had been wedged under the mattress and had fallen to the floor as she tugged the sheets out to re-make them. She had pursed her lips and silently sworn at him, then replaced it. She didn't mention it to him when he returned, and he said nothing to her either.

Loving him was never going to be easy, she thought. She had known that from the first moment they had met, and her opinion hadn't changed since. However, in order to have him, his love and his life, she knew that she had to have UNCLE too, however pain in the arse it so often was. He had talked to her about how much he was enjoying being in the house, just the two of them, but she could see that it was still there at the back of his mind, and she saw his expression as he left that morning. He was excited, she was sure, and it wasn't just at the thought of scuba diving with Fernando.

The day turned out to be quite rewarding. She drove along the coast to the first resort, visiting a number of people connected to the hotel developments, and also people who had lived in the area from before; fishermen and farmers mainly. It helped to be able to speak Catalan, although she had to be careful not to speak the forbidden language where the _Guardia Civil_ might be lurking. Towards the end of the afternoon, she turned the little car towards Palma and the hotel.

The room was perfectly adequate, the marble floor cold and refreshing after the unrelenting heat of the day. Therese sorted out her films, putting them in a cool place, then unpacked her bag and, leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor, stood underneath the shower for a few minutes of refreshing bliss.

She decided to forsake the hotel restaurant for something a bit more interesting, eventually deciding on a pleasant restaurant with tables spilling out on one of the many large squares that were characteristic of the city. When she was on her own, it was always interesting to observe the goings on of people, always an endless source of fascination to the photographer in her. The waiter brought her a menu, and she began to look through it.

'Hello Therese. Long time no see'.

The voice jerked her head up from the menu. She recognised it at once, and her memory was immediately confirmed by the sight of the woman in front of her. She stood up, dragging the chair backwards with the shock.

'Hello Li', Therese replied, stuttering slightly, but recovering herself. She could feel her heart racing a little, and she took a few deeper breaths to calm herself. Without being asked, Li Hua sat down opposite her, forcing Therese to regain her chair and sit. Li looked round and summoned the waiter, who, guessing that a friend of the gorgeous girl with the coppery hair had arrived, rushed over with another menu. For a few moments they stared at each other across the table before Li Hua spoke.

'Are you here to visit your family?' she asked casually, as if they met on a regular basis.

'In a _way_ , yes' she answered. 'I'm staying near them, but I'm also here to do some work. I'm a photographer'. Therese pursed her lips, slightly annoyed with herself for revealing something already to this woman. She knew inwardly that she needed to be cautious, wishing desperately that Illya was with her. She decided to try and turn the conversation a little towards the other woman. Of course Li was instantly recognisable by her mixed heritage, but Therese noted that she had also continued to adopt the very masculine look she remembered all too well, from ten years previously. She was wearing black trousers and jacket over a white t-shirt, but there was nothing particularly feminine about the cut of them, except that they were quite tightly fitted. Her hair was as before, incredibly short, but now slicked down with some sort of grease. Therese tried not to shudder at the way this woman made her feel.

It wasn't as if she was revolted by other women whom she imagined were like Li. Sabi was one of her closest friends. She had frequently embraced and even kissed Sabi, and had been held by her in the worst and best of times. Yet she had never felt the terror she had felt when Li had grabbed her all those years ago, and now, when she gazed so unblinkingly at her. She could only describe the look she gave her as predatory, malevolent even. Her eyes seemed to be boring into her, searching her mind and trying to control it. Therese looked down, forcing back the black feelings engulfing her.

A conversation she had had with Illya came into her mind. She asked him what he did when faced with someone he felt to be really evil. After trying to avoid the question a little, he did admit that he frequently used force against enemies; Therese knew that, from the state of him when he returned, even after a few days away. He didn't really want to elaborate, but she had guessed that shooting, strangling and blowing up were high on the list. She got the impression that blowing things up particularly appealed to him – he really had a 'boy's own' attitude to it, she thought, worriedly. None of these things were appropriate or even attractive to Therese, and she only tolerated Illya being involved with them because he felt they were necessary, and because she had to.

Using force was out of the question, even threatening people with her knife, as she had been forced to do with that ghastly Ukrainian woman, was something Therese felt ashamed about. She momentarily closed her eyes and thought. The image of her brother Gabriel came to her, the only one who would also know about Li. She had taken to visiting him in the evening if she was alone, both before Illya, and now, when he was away. Sometimes she would join the brothers for night prayer, and this simple act had taken on a new meaning when her husband was away from her; an opportunity to pray for protection. Words from one of the psalms they said came in and out of her mind;

_He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High_

_And abides in the shade of the Almighty_

_Says to the Lord: 'My refuge,_

_my stronghold, my God in whom I trust!'_

_It is he who will free you from the snare_

_of the fowler who seeks to destroy you;_

_He will conceal you with his pinions_

_and under his wings you will find refuge._

Feeling calmer, Therese looked up. Li was looking at her, with an expression of slight disappointment, she thought, as if she couldn't have what she wanted. She was staring at Therese's hands, which were gripping the edge of the table. Her wedding ring, the three rings intertwined, was clearly visible.

'You're married' she said, as if it was a command. 'What's he like?' Therese breathed in sharply. Telling Li about Illya was the last thing she wanted to do.

'He's a musician; plays the sax' she said simply. She noticed the other woman's lips curl in a sneer of superiority.

Without warning, she stood up.

'I need to use the rest room' she said baldly, using the American expression which Therese always found mildly amusing. Without waiting for a reply, she walked off into the restaurant. Therese sat up, wondering what she should do. She could make her escape now; she could even drive back to Pollensa that evening, although Illya wouldn't be back until tomorrow. At the thought of him, her intestines gave a lurch, and she was momentarily overcome with a powerful sense of wanting him near her, longing for his touch, the sight and smell of him even. She hesitated, only to find the waiter at her side, an alarmed expression on his face.

'Senora Kuryakin?' he enquired. Therese nodded, frowning slightly at his apparent knowledge of her name. 'Your friend has been taken ill; she is asking for you, Senora'. Therese sighed, then got up quickly and followed the man towards the toilets. He signalled towards the door, and she pushed it open to find Li Hua leaning over the sinks, her rather large bag on the floor by her side. The room was empty apart from the two women, and Therese felt rather discomforted by the fact. Nevertheless, she moved forward towards the other woman.

'Li?' she asked, 'Are you OK?'. She was now standing next to the American, who continued to lean over the sink.

'Yes, just help me up, will you' she replied rather tersely, holding out her free hand, without looking up. Reluctantly, Therese took her arm. With a swift movement, Li brought her other hand up to Therese's neck, injecting her with a syringe hidden there, then yanking it out, and throwing it into her bag. She caught Therese as she began to slide slowly down the wall.

'Therese, look at me' the sharp command was given. The golden brown eyes looked up, as if sightlessly turning towards the sound. 'I'm sorry I had to resort to this, my dear Therese. Your stubborn defiance would have prevented a more simple approach. Now listen to me. When you hear my voice again, you will immediately obey my command. Until then, you will forget that you ever met me here or ever before now, or that we have ever spoken to each other. Do you understand, my Storm?' There was a slow nod. 'Good. Do not worry, our baby will be safe, and in a few minutes you will feel absolutely fine'. Li Hua bent slightly to look at the silent woman opposite her. Therese's hair had fallen forward over her face, and she pushed it back roughly, pulling her towards her. She kissed her, forcing her head back with the roughness of her touch, then, leaving her there, walked slowly out of the room.

**xxxxxxxxx**

The convent bell summoned them before they could actually see the building. It was hidden just behind a steep rise in the road. The two men looked at each other, and ran up the road, reaching the top to see the bell clanging to call them to evening prayer. Illya pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face with it, continuing round the back of his neck, where his hair was long, matted and sweaty. They continued to jog down the hill, stopping outside the entrance to the church.

The complex was quite large, with the block of nun's cells attached at right angles to the church, a cloister forming the square. Beyond the buildings, an extensive area of land was obviously farmed, with neat rows of vegetables, which could be seen from the top of the hill. The nuns also appeared to have a garden, with the cemetery lying beyond. Not for the first time, Illya wondered whether it had been worth all this effort to visit this place. It was unlikely that they would be able to talk to any of the sisters, and he was quite sure they were not either involved with the other girls on the other side of the hill, or likely to want to involve themselves with any covert operation that he, or any other UNCLE agent, might fancy conducting on this island.

He glanced across at Fernando. Unlike Illya, the heat did not seem to have got to him at all, and he had his usual laid back look on. Something about his expression reminded him of Therese. Strangely, he felt suddenly anxious about her. He shook his head. He was becoming ridiculously over-protective, he thought. Goodness knows what he was going to be like when the baby was born.

Fernando entered the church, putting his bag down just inside the door, in a small entrance vestibule. His Catholic upbringing apparent, he dipped his hand into the holy water stoup and made the sign of the cross, motioning Illya to follow. Inside the church it was wonderfully cool, the whiteness of the walls contributing to the atmosphere of calm and order. The interior was very simple. There were a few rows of rush-seated chairs, with some simple benches placed in front of them before the altar. On both sides, the statues of Franciscan saints stood, calmly waiting for someone to light a candle and say a prayer. Illya, even after a very brief experience of Catholicism in general, and the Franciscans in particular, could tell the difference between St Francis and St Anthony of Padua. At the front of the church, in a side chapel laid the somewhat larger image of who he imagined to be Junipero Serra, and at the other side, St Clare. She was holding what looked like a golden sunray made out of metal, the centre of which held a white disc.

'It's a monstrance holding the Blessed Sacrament' Fernando whispered in his ear. 'She held it up as a marauding army threatened to attack her convent. The soldiers ran away. Quite a girl, eh?' Illya liked the sound of her. His attention was distracted by the sound of a door opening. Like choreography, the sisters entered their side of the church, dividing to take their places in their choir stalls facing each other. He noticed how they glanced sideways at the two men, without seeming to move their heads.

The ancient combination of sacred song and words was performed, the nuns' high, soft voices echoing in the lofty church. Illya welcomed the order and tranquillity of it, following Fernando, who seemed to know exactly what to do. He could see the attraction of the religious life; ordered, silent, peaceful. _But life without Tess?_ He thought of the last few months, of what she had given to him, and of what would come in the future. He smiled. He had made his choice, and was very happy with it.

The office over, the sisters retired, as they had come, leaving one nun in the church, clearing away. Illya remained sitting, while Fernando went outside into the evening sunshine. He looked up to see her standing in front of him. She was quite a well built woman, tall, with a strong looking, open face. He frowned, puzzling about her nationality. She certainly didn't look Spanish. She gazed steadily at him, summing him up, he felt.

'Good evening, Senor' she said in Spanish. Her voice was rich and deep, with an accent he felt he should know. 'Are you here to dive, or for some other reason?' Illya was slightly taken aback by her question.

'Um, yes, we're here to dive, but ...' he hesitated, before shrugging his shoulders and continuing. He felt he could trust her. He felt he had to. 'My organisation', he continued, 'are concerned about what may be going on at the _other_ community on this island'.

'And your organisation is?' she replied, her eyes narrowing as she gave him a long, hard look.

'The U.N…..'

'C.L.E?' she finished, smiling at his expression. 'Yes, I'm familiar with them. I should be, I used to work for them. And you are?'

'Illya Kuryakin. And my companion out there is my brother in law, Fernando McCaffery'. There was a moment's silence between them while she appeared to meditate on what he had just revealed to her. Then she sat down next to him.

'Illya Kuryakin. Russian I guess?' She immediately slipped into Russian as if it were the most normal thing in the world to do. 'And what office are you working out of, Mr Kuryakin?'

'New York' he replied, without hesitating. This was becoming one of the strangest conversations he had had for a long time. He had to pinch himself to realise it was happening. She looked at him again, before smiling, and, now speaking with a mid-west accent, speaking English.

'I guess Alexander Waverly's still running the show, then?' she continued. He nodded. 'And you're a _married_ , _Russian_ agent working out of New York?' She smiled; wryly, he thought. 'Well, my, don't things move on' she said, then as an afterthought, 'but for the better, I might add'. She looked at him again, this time more seriously. 'I guess' she said, 'you want to know all about Miss Bolt and what she's hatching with her feathered friends up at _La Masia'_.

Her name was Sister Catherine, and they talked for some time. Illya was surprised at how much she knew, considering that she rarely, if ever left the convent grounds, but apparently she was what they called an 'extern' sister; one who was allowed contact with the outside world on behalf of her sisters. She explained that they did have a Chaplain, however, who also ministered to the few remaining locals that were not in the pay of Bolt Pharmaceuticals. A more important source of information, she told him, came from Miguel, the general handyman who lived with the chaplain in a house on the land owned by the Poor Clares. He had also been employed on an ad hoc basic by the La Masia staff to do odd jobs. She outlined to Illya all that Miguel had told her concerning the community at the Villa.

'What I cannot understand is how these girls are getting pregnant' she said quite simply. 'Excuse me if I am being naïve, but where are the men? And what is going to happen to all the little boy babies? It appears that Miss Bolt is building a community of Amazons. But for what purpose? I understand that the premises have been inspected by the local health authorities. They were described as a private 'Mother and baby' clinic with obstetric facilities including a doctor. So you won't get far if you try to involve the government with it'. Illya could well imagine who the doctor was.

She stood up, and walked towards the door with him. At the entrance, she turned. 'Mr Kuryakin' she said, looking at him very seriously, 'I will help you in any way I can, but you need to be aware of something you might not read about in your UNCLE reports. It is the existence of evil. Because we are a religious community, Miss Bolt and her friends have done everything in their power to remove us from this island'. She looked at him, taking his hand and holding it. 'Please don't underestimate the power of evil, Mr Kuryakin. I believe in it, you see, and I have seen it standing in front of me. I have seen it in the person of Miss Li Hua Bolt'.

**xxxxxxxxx**

By some error of judgement, Therese managed to arrive back in Pollensa at the self same time as her husband and brother skidded to a halt in front of their house. She stood there at the door with her silver suitcase and overnight bag, cursing herself for not setting off from Palma in time to avoid having to explain her trip to him. Illya slowly got off the Vespa and handed the helmet to Fernando, who wisely drove off, sensing trouble. Therese had got the door open by the time he got there, but he took the bags off her and followed her into the house, his face set.

'I don't want a lecture' she started, her eyes flashing at him as he stood there in the living room cum kitchen. She started to go up the stairs to the bedroom, Illya following. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Sooner or later, he was going to start lecturing her, she knew it. Of course it was one rule for him, and one for her. Secret assignments were a one-sided affair.

He put down the cases, and levered off his backpack. The silence was beginning to get to Therese. She turned away from him, throwing her jacket on the bed, and kicking her sandals off in confusion. She sighed deeply. She felt him behind her, and then he was holding her hand, leading her into the shower room. He had taken off his very dusty sandals and jacket, and now stood in front of her with just his t-shirt and shorts on. He looked filthy. She imagined that they had slept in the boat, that being the only option on that island. A combination of sweat, sand, dust and sea had not done much for his appearance. His hair looked like rough straw, there were stains all over his t-shirt, and his shorts were a write-off. She began to laugh.

'Hmm. Shower?' she murmured, pulling the t-shirt off his head. He stood there, patiently waiting for her to undress him.

'Perhaps you should continue your wifely duties in the shower with me. And then,' he added, as he finished taking off her clothes, 'you can explain to me what you've been doing while I've been away'.

She scrubbed at him to clean him up, hoping it might take his mind away from the inevitable interrogation. After she had insisted on covering his hair with conditioner, he had started on her, washing her body gently with the sponge while he followed the sponge with his lips. He had been playing with her ears, holding her wet hair back, when he suddenly stopped.

'What is this?'

'What is what? He touched the side of her neck with his finger. She frowned, looking at his worried face.

He continued. 'You have a small puncture, with a big bruise round it. Before you say, it can't be a bite, there's no swelling or redness. It looks … like a …' He looked closely at her neck, pushing his hair out of the way to see better. 'Like a … .puncture from an injection'.

She pulled away from him and got out of the shower, looking at her neck in the mirror. It was true. On the side of her neck was a small puncture with a large bruise surrounding it, like a bullseye on a darts board. Worryingly, she had no idea at all how it had happened. Illya finished rinsing his hair and got out, putting a towel round Therese. They both stared at her neck in the mirror.

'You know, I have no idea how I got that. Don't make a fuss; I am perfectly fine, I am nearly four months pregnant, not ill for goodness sake. If you must know' she continued, 'I went to Palma on an assignment. I stayed in a hotel last night. I feel fine, although I appear to have had a funny turn that I cannot now remember' she said.

Illya turned her round and took her into the bedroom; pulling back the sheet and making her lie down. He got in beside her, pulling up the pillows to support him.

'Let me get this right. You went to Palma without bothering to tell me what you were doing, carrying that heavy suitcase and another bag. You spent a very tiring day photographing for this assignment, and then you went to your hotel, where, unsurprisingly, you had a 'funny turn' as you call it, which you cannot now remember, together with a puncture which looks like an injection, which you also cannot now remember. And I am then not allowed to worry about you'.

He lay back on the pillows with his eyes closed. Therese sat up, leaning over him, stroking his hair.

'You've made it sound far worse than it was. The only slightly strange aspect to it is this funny hole in my neck. Listen'. She made him sit up and look at her. She was beginning to worry about it now, but she didn't want him to see. 'I can remember looking at the menu. I was sitting outside, I think. Then it all seems really fuzzy until I found myself in the toilets – restroom to you, my American Russian boy, being picked up off the floor by a cleaning lady'. Illya looked at her neck again.

'Whatever happened, I am concerned that you appear to have lost consciousness for at least half an hour, Tess, and have picked this up at the same time. I think we should visit the clinic at Alcudia tomorrow, just to be safe'. Therese groaned. If he was like this now, what was he going to be like nearer the birth. And at the birth? She dreaded to think. Illya pulled her towards him.

'I'm afraid that there's something else we need to talk about, concerning your sister and Napoleon, which may involve us slightly shortening the honeymoon' he said, kissing the top of her head. Therese looked up.

'Oh, what now? Don't tell me she's pregnant too!' She pulled herself up out of the bed to look at him better. He looked down at her belly.

'I'm sure you look a little fatter' he said. She cuffed him gently on the head.

'Thank you for that helpful comment. Now, Napoleon and Jo?'

'It appears' Illya said simply, 'that they have broken off their engagement and separated'.

They discussed the news for some time, debating the reasons for what had happened. Illya had contacted Connie to see if he could persuade her to tell him more, but she was not prepared to divulge what had happened, in some sense, as Illya put it, of loyalty to Jo, however misguided in his opinion. She had told him though, that Jo was in England, and had revealed, accidentally he had thought, and that it was recuperation after some sort of surgery.

'Surgery?' Therese said in amazement, 'what kind of surgery?' but Illya had shrugged his shoulders. Apparently Napoleon was in Germany, working with Sabi, on the German end of the Bolt investigation. Illya had contacted Sabi in Germany on the way back from the island. She had revealed to him that Napoleon was, in her words, 'driving himself to being taken off active service. 'He's becoming dangerous, darling. Can you come?' she had whispered to him. She sounded frightened.

Therese lay down in his arms.

'Well, we have about five days of our holiday left, before you have to be back at work, right?'

'Uh-huh. My days of being a beach bum are nearly over, sadly'.

'Be serious'. She pulled his face towards hers. 'Go and rescue Napoleon, and I'll go and sort out Josefina. Bring him back to Liverpool with you pronto, and perhaps we can affect the great reunion. Ring me when you've found him anyway, and I can tell you the part of this story which I think she knows, and which neither you, me or Napoleon does. OK? Fernando will probably come back with me, so you can rest assured I won't be alone in case I have another 'funny turn' OK?'

'You are wonderful' he said, sliding down to his usual place.

'Glad you think so' Therese replied, kissing the abundant blond hair. 'I'm sure Mr Mueller in Berlin will enjoy your beach bum look'. There was a heavy groan from below.

'I am allowed five days. Five days' she heard the muffled reply.

**CHAPTER 4**

'Open Channel D; overseas relay. Oh, hello there, Margarita. Can you put me through to Mr Waverly, please?'

Margarita was not expecting to hear from Illya Kuryakin, and she was certainly not expecting to hear him being so polite or friendly. She hadn't been on the switch for long, but Connie had already warned her of what he could be like. Margarita was surprised that Connie had wanted to be their secretary, after what she had told her, but she supposed that working with Mr Solo made up for it. However, the man on the other end of the satellite didn't sound like the frigid, unemotional robot that he had been described as, by some of his colleagues in Section 2. Confused, she put him through. She needed to speak to Connie, stat.

'Waverly, here. Good to hear from you Mr Kuryakin. I trust you have had an enjoyable, er …. rest?'

'Um, yes sir. Did Nap … Mr Solo give you my report on the island near Mallorca, sir?' Illya replied, looking over his shoulder. He had eventually persuaded Therese to go to the hospital at Alcudia, before leaving for the airport, and they had driven there with Fernando, this time in a more luxurious hire car. The mark on her neck continued to worry him; he had looked at it again in the better light of the morning, and it was the size of the puncture combined with her amnesia that concerned him most. Before he had spoken to Waverly, Illya had talked to Peter and asked him to contact the hospital for the results of the blood test he had requested. Typically, Therese had refused to let him go into the examination room with her, so, telling Fernando to wait, he had found a convenient part of the hospital grounds where he would not be interrupted.

'Yes, Mr Kuryakin, he did convey your findings to me. From what we know of Bolt Pharmaceuticals, and our intelligence from Spain and Germany, this may seem to be the most fruitful line of enquiry to pursue. When you return to duty, we had better gather to plan our next step in this affair' Waverly replied gravely.

Illya hesitated. It was difficult to ask for additional leave when he had already had several weeks holiday, in addition to the time he had been cooped up in the medical wing. Still, it would surely be in the best interests of all concerned that he get Napoleon back to normal, whatever that might be.

'I understand that Mr Solo is in Germany at the moment, sir' he began, trying to think on his feet. He could almost hear Waverly's brain clicking into gear, working out what he was going to say next. 'I wondered … ' he continued, 'if I might make a slight detour and …'

'Mr Kuryakin', Waverly interrupted, 'I cannot see that your presence in Berlin would in any way add to the mission that Mr Solo is carrying out there at the moment'. Illya's heart sank. He pursed his lips, waiting for the inevitable order to return back to the office; back to regulation appearance. He ran his hand through his hair unconsciously at the thought of it. 'However' Waverly was continuing, 'bearing in mind the present rather unfortunate personal difficulties Mr Solo appears to be suffering, it may be to the benefit of the Command if you were able to, as it were, seek a positive outcome to these problems. Only don't take too long about it, will you, Mr Kuryakin. I will expect to see you both in my office a week today. Waverly out'.

Illya shook his head. _As long as it was to the benefit of the Command_. Well, he had two extra days to somehow sort out Napoleon, persuade him to come to England and then bring about some sort of reconciliation between him and Jo. Simple. Compared to this, blowing up a building, or avoiding being tortured by some lunatic from THRUSH, seemed like a piece of cake.

His wife and brother in law were waiting for him when he wandered back to the aptly named 'waiting room'. Although she had only been married to him for less than two months, Therese had already learned, fast he thought, not to ask where he had been or what he had been up to. That didn't stop him asking her what she had been up to.

'Well?' he said, looking hard at her. 'What did they say?' She started talking to him whilst delving in her large shoulder bag for something.

'They thought the same as you that it looks like an injection, which is ridiculous. And thank you for getting them to take some blood,' she said, lips in a tight line and eyes flashing. 'Miraculously' she continued, 'Peter rang up in the middle of all this requesting they send UNCLE the results. I don't suppose you know anything about that, do you, lover? Illya glared just a little bit at her. She was so determined to be independent, it frightened him sometimes.

'Did you tell them you were pregnant?' he enquired gently, risking another outburst. She was still looking in her bag. She pulled out what looked like a black and white photo. She looked up at him smiling, and pulled him down to sit next to her.

'You're lucky, _amado,_ something good came from all this. They have a new sort of scanning machine for babies. Illya Kuryakin, may I present _your_ baby'. She handed him the photo. It looked as if there was a broad arc of light with a shape held in its ray. When he looked closer, he began to discern the details; tiny arms and legs curled up towards the head, which seemed to be bowed down towards the chest in a sleeping position. A dark spot delineated the beating heart. He gazed at the photo for a long time, then at Therese, then at the photo again. 'Thank you, O thank you' he said simply, in Russian. Therese shook her head at him. _That baby's got him wrapped round her little finger even before she's born_ she thought.

**xxxxxxxxx**

Napoleon Solo sat at the table in the apartment, poring over a series of photos and some documents Sabi had given him earlier in the day. He preferred to look at them here, with no-one to disturb him. He was not in the mood for friendly chats, or attempts to cheer him up or to 'take his mind off it' as Peter Mueller had said to him when he arrived in Berlin. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. It seemed that everybody in UNCLE knew what had happened, and everybody had an opinion about it. Everybody knew, but nobody understood why, least of all him. Jo had disappeared as soon as she was able, to England. She did not appear to want to explain anything to him, and he couldn't get Connie or the Medical staff to explain either. Illya was away. He almost laughed out loud at the irony of it all. The 'King of Siberia', the one the whole of UNCLE thought would be the last agent in the world to fall in love, never mind marry, had managed somehow, when nobody was really looking, to find himself a really beautiful woman who understood him and loved him. Add to that, the Russian married her and made her pregnant, while he, the great lover, sat alone in a miserable Berlin flat having just blown the relationship he had been searching for, for what felt like a very long time.

He leaned forward again and continued studying the documents. He really needed Illya now. He persuaded himself it was because some of these papers had very technical language. There were pages listing the various products of Bolt Pharmaceuticals, and there were many products it seemed. He didn't even know what he was looking for, and how that related to what was going on, on that mysterious island his partner had just happened upon on his honeymoon. He wondered what the Russian was doing there, and where his wife was when he was trekking round with, did he say his brother in law? He hadn't been very responsive to the call, and he knew Illya would know something was wrong, if he didn't know already. Knowing him, he thought, he would probably turn up in Germany trying to persuade him to sort it out with Jo. Deep inside, he half hoped that was true.

He looked at the pictures of various grey looking men and women, all executives of the multi-national company. His gaze returned to the owner and managing director. Li-Hua Bolt. He might have known the woman they had seen in Madrid would return into their lives at some point. He glanced down at her CV, listed below the photograph. For such a young woman, it was impressive. She had started young, a prodigy it appeared, gaining her first degree before she was twenty. She was a qualified pharmacologist, but her main expertise seemed to lie in psychology. Her interests lay in the control of emotional states by surgery, pharmacology and psychotherapy, particularly hypnotherapy, in which she was an expert, it said. Napoleon's insides began to churn slightly.

The conditioning sessions when he joined UNCLE were bad enough; he believed, and it had been proved true, that these programmes protected him against this sort of attack. But the thought of surgical intervention sickened him. He knew that in some cases, the use of drugs had allowed THRUSH to control even UNCLE agents, albeit temporarily. The pictures of Illya in the Ukraine flashed through his mind, confirming his thoughts. No doubt Dr Engel was sharpening her scalpels somewhere in readiness for some evil scheme of Miss Bolt's invention. If they got hold of more innocent subjects, then he hardly dared think what they could do.

The conference at Bolt Pharmaceuticals Germany was to begin in five days' time. According to these details, there was to be a presentation, where Ms Bolt herself would speak on the future of psychiatry and Bolt Pharmaceutical's role in it. He wondered whether she would give them a demonstration of her expertise. For despite Sabi's wide-eyed concern at the idea, Solo had persuaded Mueller that he should attend. They needed to understand exactly what THRUSH's role in all this was, and how the surgical and pharmacological work linked with what was going on, on that island. Sabi had agreed to go with him. She had even suggested to him, that it might need to be a woman agent who infiltrated the island rather than him and/or Illya, 'for obvious reasons, darling'. For the second time in the space of a few minutes he found himself wishing that his partner was by his side. This would be just up his street, and besides that, he loved doing all that disguise thing; and Rudi loved Illya.

Rudi was in charge of Section 12 in the Berlin office. It was a very strange world down there; a cross between a beauty parlour and a fancy-dress shop, he decided. They had both had occasion to use Section 12 in Berlin in the past, and it was here that Rudi had met Illya. He was of similar build to the Russian, but with brown cropped hair and greeny-brown eyes. His sexuality was known by all, and celebrated by himself, in truly camp fashion; indeed, Rudi often declared himself to be 'the Queen of Section 12'.

With a wry smile, Solo remembered their first meeting. They had a mission to infiltrate some Romany groups in Southern Germany that UNCLE feared were being used as a cover for THRUSH movement of stolen documents; a perfect cover, as they moved extensively all over Southern Europe. Illya followed him into the alternative world of Section 12, his blue eyes wide. Napoleon didn't need to guess how Rudi would respond to the Russian, with his then, quite long blond locks and sea-blue eyes. How the Russian would respond back would be interesting he thought.

'Oh _guten tag_ Napoleon', gushed Rudi when they arrived, 'and who is _this?_ ' he virtually screamed when he saw Illya; the Russian glancing from side to side, as Rudi danced round him .

'Illya Kuryakin, my partner, Rudi' Napoleon had said. 'He needs you to turn him into a Romany gypsy'.

'It will be my absolute pleasure' cooed Rudi, pulling Illya towards a chair in front of one of the large mirrors in the room. To Illya's consternation, Napoleon had left them to it, saying he would call back later. When he returned, a taciturn Russian agent was standing there, remarkably changed. He was wearing a pair of rather old looking trousers with a loose fitting, soft cream shirt and a worn-looking leather waistcoat. Rudi had apparently given him some injection which darkened his skin, giving him a more sallow tone. His hair was altogether different. The blond had been replaced by an earthy peat brown colour. Under protest, Illya had allowed him to chop at it, making it look rough and unkempt. Rudi came over to stand by Napoleon, as if they were looking at a dummy in a shop window.

'I hated getting rid of the blond, it's _so_ beautiful, but it just wouldn't do, would it? He's not easy is he? He whispered with a theatrical wide eyed look, Illya glaring at them both equally. 'But we're getting to know each other know, aren't we Illyusha?' he added. Napoleon was surprised at the diminutive form being used, but knowing Rudi, he shouldn't have been. In fact, Illya got to like Rudi very much, once they'd established the ground rules. They had even gone out together, Rudi showing Illya 'the more interesting side' of Berlin night life.

Rudi had asked Napoleon if Illya would be joining him, when he went down there to consult him about his 'look' for the conference at Bolt.

'I've carried a torch for that boy for years' he exclaimed, running round the room tidying up. 'And now look what he's done – I hope she's fabulous, that's all I can say' he had added, giving a stage sigh in Napoleon's direction.

Solo gathered up all the photos and stuffed them back into the wallet they had come from. Grabbing his coat and wallet, he headed for the street, and the oblivion of a bar.

**xxxxxxxx**

They had parted at Madrid airport, Illya taking the direct flight to Berlin, and the two McCafferys heading for home. He had explained what he hoped to do with Napoleon to Therese on the plane to Madrid, and they had agreed he would ring before he turned up with him, hopefully, in Liverpool.

'Don't just turn up without telling me, will you?' she whispered in his ear, pushing the hair back over it, 'I want to soften her up before lover boy arrives, otherwise it'll be World War Three, and we'll be in the line of fire'.

'I may have to help Napoleon with a bit of work anyway' he casually threw in, hoping she wasn't listening too hard. She was. Therese pulled his head towards her, glaring at him, or trying to. He never thought she was really good at looking cross with him; she couldn't keep it up for long enough.

'Listen, soft lad' she said, her accent coming out more strongly, 'you're still on your honeymoon _technically_ , so no larking about on little adventures which end up in the hospital, right?' He put on his best wide-eyed innocent look, and shook his head.

'Your wish is my command, _cherie._ Do you want me to loosen your seat belt? It looks rather tight'. Her magazine replied to the question by whacking him on the side of the head.

The flight from Madrid arrived early, and Illya was through customs by the time Sabi found him. He shivered a little with the difference in temperature between the two countries, and hoped that Sabi had remembered to buy the clothes he had asked for; otherwise he was going to have a few rather cold days in Germany. Being arm in arm with Sabi in the airport terminus reminded him acutely of being in the exact same place with her just months before. He hoped he looked a bit better now than he did then. This time though, he was the one with the lover, and she was alone.

In the car on the way to the apartment, Sabi voiced her concerns about Napoleon.

'He won't come to the office unless he's called, just spends time in the apartment working. When he's not working, he goes out, and I think, tries to forget her by, what do you say, 'smashing the bottle?' she said sadly.

'I think it's 'hitting the bottle', Sabi, but I get the idea' Illya replied, tersely. 'Has he talked to anyone about it?' he continued.

'No, I don't think so. If he hasn't talked to you, darling, he won't talk to any of us, will he?' she replied, with a tender smile.

They arrived to find that Napoleon, as Sabi had predicted, had already left for the evening. Illya looked round the familiar room, the one where the four agents had planned Illya's mission into East Berlin in the spring; the one in which they had previously enjoyed many happy evenings together. Now it looked rather forlorn; a faceless shell waiting for someone to come and cheer it up. Obviously, Napoleon was not in the mood for doing the cheering up. In the bedroom, his clothes, rather than being neatly stored away as Illya had watched him do countless times, in countless other apartments and hotels, had been left in the suitcase, a pair of trousers slung over the back of a chair. Illya frowned at the sight.

On what he presumed was to be his bed, there lay a neat pile of clothes. He put down his bag and sorted through them.

'I hope they're what you wanted, darling. No suits, just casual, _ja_?'. He nodded. He needed to reinforce the fact that he wasn't actually working, even though he thought he might get roped in to what sounded like a rather risky few days at Bolt Pharmaceuticals, Germany. Of course, Sabi had good taste, and the cord trousers, soft white shirts, a beautiful grey cashmere jumper and black polo neck were perfect, he thought. He fingered the black leather jacket that lay by the side of the pile. It was something he had looked at, but not bothered to buy in the past, considering it far too expensive.

'I hope all this didn't cost you too much' he said, turning to her with his wallet open, counting the Deutch Marks he had managed to obtain at the airport. She closed the wallet, smiling at his seriousness.

'Rudi knew someone in the trade' she whispered, watching for the inevitable raised eyebrows. He smiled at the name. It would be good to go down to Rudi's little kingdom and see him again, as long as he didn't make a fuss. But that was probably asking too much.

Sabi sauntered back to the kitchen, where Illya could hear her starting to make a meal for them. He suddenly felt very hungry, and he missed Therese badly. He wandered into the living room and picked up the phone. No doubt they had fixed it since he had performed his little re-routing job on it last spring, and someone would be listening in to his call. He dialled the numbers for the operator and asked to be put through to the number in England. After a few rings, Therese's voice came on the line. She must have known he would ring her.

'Hello, everything alright?' he began, wanting to say more than this rather bland beginning.

'Hmm. Not without you, _amado'._ He loved her directness, the rather husky voice he remembered from the first time he had called her on this line. 'Before you ask' Therese continued, 'she's out with friends at the moment, so I haven't been able to use my UNCLE interrogation techniques on her yet. How's the other half of the nightmare scenario doing?'

'Well, he's not here either, so I will have to wait until later as well, to bring him to his senses'. Illya groaned inwardly. Hearing her like this was making him wonder if this detour was a good idea. As if she had read his mind, Therese spoke.

'Don't wait until later, he needs you. Go and see if you can find him, and bring him home. He will want you to do that for him, Illyusha'. Illya frowned.

'Yes, but it's a big city out there. I'll ring you later if I get anywhere. Or even if I don't. _Je t'adore, ma petite fleur',_ he added spontaneously, surprised at himself.

' _Ma aussi, mon cher. Ma aussi_.'

Sabi caught the end of the conversation as she came to set the table. She smiled at the back of the Russian agent, as he headed for the shower. She could see him stripping off in the bedroom, a very different sight than the emaciated figure he had cut a few months previously. His tan seemed to be all over the strong body; his hair nearly as light as hers now, and falling heavily across his face, as he pulled down his clothes. He sensed her presence, looking back across his shoulders at her, as he grabbed a towel to wrap himself in.

'Lovely tan, darling; very even' she said with an amused look on her face. Illya blushed slightly, and then smiled.

'Um, we had a sort of roof top terrace where we spent some time on our own; undisturbed, if you get my meaning' he replied. Sabi laughed. He looked so different now it was astonishing. It wasn't just the improvement in his physique, either. He just seemed so incredibly happy. She thought quickly about Kat. She would have been delighted to see him like this.

At dinner they discussed Napoleon.

'I suppose I will just have to go out and wander the streets until by some luck I run into him' he sighed. 'I found his communicator in the bedroom. I can't believe he's gone out without it'.

' _Ja_ , it's unbelievable, but that's the state he's in' Sabi replied. 'However, you will not have to 'wander the streets', Illyusha. Napoleon has a little keepsake I have left with him, as it were, to make him easier to find'. Illya's eyes widened a little, making Sabi laugh. 'He's so distracted, darling, he wouldn't know if I had slapped a great big sign on him, saying 'follow me, I'm an UNCLE agent' she said. 'No, it's something a little bit more subtle'.

She showed Illya a skin-coloured patch the size of a small coin. He could just see some tiny filaments sandwiched in between the layers.

'Clever, eh? I thought you would like it. It's waterproof, can't be seen or really felt by the wearer, and, it emits a signal so that we can find him' she said triumphantly.

Illya examined the patch carefully, and then put it on the table.

'Permit me to ask just where you stuck this little transmitter' he asked, smiling at her. 'I presume by your expression, that you've used it already to hunt the fox into his lair' he added.

'Oh _ja_ , I've followed him several times' she said, rather sadly. 'He's not really aware of anything at the moment, so he didn't see me at first, and then later, he was too far gone to know who I was, and who brought him back to the apartment' she said. 'As to where it is, well, I am afraid, darling, that I had to, as it were, 'take advantage' of him the first time he got himself into this state. He hasn't found it yet' she said, smiling knowingly.

They left after the meal. Illya drove Sabi's Beetle, being well used to 'Ringo', Therese's car, and its little quirks. As soon as they got going, Sabi drew a little receiver out of her bag with a tiny homing signal emitting from it. It looked rather flimsy to Illya, but Sabi had been successful with it before, so he presumed it would work again with equal success. They wove their way through brightly lit main streets, the faces of couples out for the evening lit up like rabbits in the glare of the headlights. Illya always thought West Berlin was such a stark contrast to the East – as though the two sectors had to demonstrate the extremes of a divided world; communism versus capitalism all in one city. It was hard to believe that just a few miles from this mad stream of fun lovers lay the dark heart of the Stasi offices at Normannenstrasse.

They parked the car up a side street and continued on foot, the signal becoming clearer and more regular as they neared their target. The streets were becoming narrower, with rather less salubrious bars beckoning them in with lurid notices and half-clad girls draped round the entrances like grotesque mannequins. Illya vaguely remembered some of the clubs Rudi had taken him in not far from here, but he didn't think that Napoleon would be heading in that direction, at least he hoped not. It had been hard work fending off some of the fellow patrons much to Rudi's amusement.

Sabi had stopped outside a dimly lit bar down an equally dimly lit street. She shut the little receiver and put it back into her bag.

'I think he's here, darling, but in what state we will have to discover for ourselves'. The bar was down some exterior stairs from the road, which lead to a largish room with a small stage one end, and a bar the other. Some tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly throughout the room, with stools at the bar to take the serious drinkers, it appeared. On the stage, a rather second-rate combo was strumming their way through a number of 'classic songs' in a rather listless manner. The atmosphere of hopelessness struck Illya like a blow to the stomach.

He peered around, looking for his partner, and hoping he saw Solo before the American noticed him. As he was about to shake his head to Sabi above the noise, the door of the toilet banged open and shut and Solo emerged, rather unsteadily, weaving his way through the people seated at the table, occasionally banging into one and being shoved back, or shouted at by others. Eventually, he regained his seat at a table next to the wall, slouching over his drink as if he was guarding it from attack. Sabi had also seen Napoleon's little journey, and they began to move towards him. By the time they reached the table his head was down, the glass pushed to the side by the force of it hitting the table.

They managed to lever him upright between them and begin to escort him out of the bar, Illya somehow paying the waitress on the way out. Getting up the stairs was a greater challenge, and Illya wondered how on earth Sabi had managed on her own. Once on the street, they half carried, half dragged him to the car, shoving him unceremoniously onto the back seat before heading for the apartment.

They drove back in virtual silence, Illya glancing at Napoleon in the back at regular intervals, Sabi driving intently as fast as possible. His partner seemed completely out of it and did not stir throughout the journey, lying lifeless in the back of the car. Illya noticed the not so subtle signs of his unhappiness; the carelessness of his appearance, so unlike his partner; the lack of protection or communication with those who could protect him. The Russian leaned across and put his hand on Solo's neck. At least he was still alive.

They decided not to try to wake him, but just to let him sleep it off. It wasn't too late, so there should be enough time to bring him round properly in the morning before they met Mueller in the office at ten. Illya looked at his watch. One o'clock. Just about enough time, he hoped.

After they had got him into bed, they retreated into the living room, talking in whispers.

'Tomorrow' Illya began, 'If he doesn't wake up before me and get the shock of his life, I'll wake him up and try to sort this out a little before we have to go to see Mueller. And Sabi', he added, giving her a kiss, 'thank you. I know he would thank you too, and he will, once we get this thing sorted out'.

Sabi shrugged. ' _Ach_ , it's nothing, darling. We are a team, _nicht wahr_? We don't owe each other anything'. She gave him a hug and went into her room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Illya crept into the room, but he probably could have put the light full on and danced a jig, he thought, for all the reaction Napoleon was capable of making. He was sleeping very heavily, making the snoring noises Illya had heard before when he was in this state, which was extremely rare. Illya hung his clothes up in the closet and got into bed, smiling wryly at the irony of it. He fell asleep hoping that he could at least contain Napoleon until he could explain to him why it was that his fiancée wanted nothing to do with him.

**xxxxxxxx**

Therese drove her mother's mini fairly slowly from her parent's house towards Birkenhead where the Mersey ferry carrying her sister back from town would dock. Her parents had moved over to the Wirral side of the River Mersey, with its lovely coastline looking towards Wales, and its huge, open skies and flat lands, from their previous house near the University. Therese felt rather cut off from the city to begin with, and missed the large rambling Victorian house they had lived in as children; but all the children had gone now, and the pretty house on the coast at West Kirby seemed appropriate. Her mother enjoyed the proximity to the sea, and her father loved what her mother enjoyed.

She could see the ferry mid-stream now, chugging its way across the swirling currents of the river. She loved the river, and the great city across it – the Liver building with its legendary liver birds sitting, as it were, watching life going on below; the docklands area, then up the hill towards the town, and then out again towards her beloved Anfield football ground. Therese's father had agreed to meet Jo from the ferry, but it was Therese who sat there now, waiting. She needed to know the truth from Jo, and as soon as possible. She was missing her Russian badly, and she wanted to help him help Napoleon, if she could. Helping him, would bring him back to her, she hoped, and bring the two wayward lovers together too.

Therese got out of the car and wandered down towards the dock where people were alighting from the ferry, walking up the long gangway towards their cars, or towards the buses which would take them home. She could see Jo finally, her long legs striding up towards her sister, whom she had seen and waved to as she walked up the ramp. Therese thought Jo looked rather drawn, with a forced smile plastered on her face; false, sad.

'Tessy; fed up with the boy wonder already?' she said as she came up, apparently unsurprised by Therese's presence at the dock.

'Hardly' Therese replied, adopting a nearly full-on Kuryakin stare, 'we came back to sort you two out before any further damage was done' she added rather tersely, falling into step with her sister.

'You needn't have bothered' Jo answered, looking down suddenly, 'we're adults, remember; we're quite good at messing up our lives without any help from you or the Russian'. They walked back in silence to the car; the rehearsal of what might be said repeating through Therese's mind like a toy train running endlessly round a track. As they drove back towards their parents' house, Therese began, carefully at first.

'Illya's not at home, he's in Berlin. You know it's difficult to help you both when neither of us knows what on earth is going on, Jo'.

'Who says we need your help, Therese' Jo replied, rather savagely. Therese could tell she was upset by her use of the full name. After what seemed like an eternity, Jo spoke again.

'I can't have any children. Well, the chances of conception are pretty low. Well, they would be with only half an ovary, wouldn't they?' she said quietly. Therese swallowed hard. She was suddenly painfully aware of her own body. Her clothes no longer fitted over her waist, and her breasts were becoming uncomfortable. She hoped that her sister hadn't noticed as much as her husband had. She stopped the car in a lay-by and turned towards her sister.

'So. You think that Napoleon won't want you, because of this? Don't you think you should at least give him the chance to talk it over with you?' Therese murmured, putting her hand on her sister's arm. Jo looked out of the window, making an effort to control herself.

'Tess, since he knew you were pregnant, he's mentioned it at every opportunity. I don't even think he realises he's doing it sometimes. Of course, he hides what he's really thinking behind the 'ankle-biters' act he puts on, but I know that deep down it's what he wants. And it's what I can't give him'. She laid her head on the side window of the car, as if it were too heavy to hold on her shoulders. Therese felt as if the old roles were being reversed; the little sister now become the older, more experienced one. The big sister become the child.

'Jo' Therese continued slowly, 'I think you're underestimating him. Do you doubt that he loves you? Jo nodded numbly, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. 'Then you must talk to him. At the very least, he deserves to know why he's been rejected. You know' she continued, 'I had no real idea when I fell in love with Illya how it would work out, and it's still very much a daily challenge living with him, much as I love him. But life's a bit of a gamble, isn't it?' she added, smiling encouragingly at her sister. Jo pulled Therese towards her and they sat there for a while in a still embrace, their faces close. After a while, it seemed natural to continue the journey home.

**xxxxxxxx**

The daylight was far too bright for its own good, Napoleon thought. He rolled over, wondering who had drawn the curtains back so early. A piercing pain right between his eyes reminded him of his visit to _Der Schwarz Zimmer_ last night. His head certainly felt like a 'black room' as he had no idea, once again, how he had got home or who had helped him. He rolled back from the pain of the window, to nearly collide with a pair of very familiar legs standing by the side of the bed. The legs began to bend, bringing a familiar face close to Napoleon's own bleary-eyed one.

'Good morning. Drink this, and take these, and then you can tell me what this is all about' Illya said, quietly, at the same time pulling the pillows upright behind his partner and helping him sit up, before handing him a cup of tea and two white pills.

'Very English; learned this from your wife, comrade?' Napoleon answered, somewhat uncertainly. 'What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were due back next week. In New York' he blundered on. His eyes began to focus better on his partner's now very concerned looking face. Illya had obviously been up for a while. He was fully dressed, and the bed had been made. Napoleon smiled inwardly; she had been working on him then. It was hard not to show on his face the relief that Napoleon felt; relief, but also a sense of guilt and hopelessness at what had happened to him. He pulled himself higher up the bed, drank the tea and swallowed the pills obediently.

Sabi was apparently keeping well out of sight, but Napoleon could hear her in the kitchen, making breakfast he presumed. It seemed that an interrogation was going to take place before he was allowed to eat. Illya took his empty cup and placed it on the tray, then sat on the bed. The phone rang, startling them both. Sabi answered and immediately called Illya, coming in to guard the prisoner while he spoke to, Solo presumed, his wife.

After some time, he returned, his face showing little, as per normal, Napoleon thought. Sabi retreated, leaving them together again.

'Therese?' Napoleon said lightly, trying to comb his hair back into some order with his fingers.

'Yes. Napoleon, when is the conference at Bolt Germany taking place?' Illya said.

'Er, four days time. How did you ... and why would you be interested? You're supposed to be rolling in the hay with Mrs Kuryakin, not muscling in where you're not needed, comrade' Napoleon replied rather sulkily. Illya decided to ignore him and ploughed on. He went out of the room, and Napoleon could hear him talking to Sabi in rather a _sotto voce_ tone. After a few minutes he returned.

'You'd better hurry up and get dressed, you've got a plane to catch' Illya said. 'I'll fill you in on the way'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo and Kuryakin begin to investigate Bolt Enterprises, as Illya and Therese discover the true implications of Bolt's intentions for their unborn baby.

Sabi gave them a lift to the airport; she had spoken to Mueller and managed to obtain some tickets on the lunch-time flight to London. Napoleon stared out of the window at the grey, featureless landscape passing rapidly by them on the autobahn. Illya had been non-committal about whatever he knew, and he had grudgingly accepted the fact that the Russian was waiting until the right time to share anything with his partner. The memory of the last week made Solo feel frightened of his own behaviour; it was hardly believable that he should allow himself to sink to the level where he was totally vulnerable to attack, or to be unable to account for how he had got home on several evenings. It was also nothing short of miraculous that Kuryakin had managed to find him in the middle of an immense city like Berlin; no doubt he would get to the bottom of that little mystery before long.

It was only on the drive from the airport north to Liverpool that Illya had finally spoken to Napoleon about the mess that his life appeared to be at the moment. They had crawled through the unending urban sprawl that was the West Midlands, and were heading up the new motorway towards the North West. Motorways were a relatively new phenomenon in England, and the service stations, few and far between, were expensive and dull, serving expensive, bad food to the captive audience forced to use them. They sat at a table with two rather indifferent coffees, the Russian agent staring out of the window at the monotonous sight of traffic going up and down the three-laned concrete road. At last, he turned to Napoleon, running his hand through his hair, as he did, Napoleon knew, when he was worried or concerned about something.

'Thank you for being so patient with me, Napoleon', Illya said slowly. Napoleon continued drinking his coffee, black to bring his thoughts back to some sort of sane organisation.

'I don't know why you're so worked up' Napoleon said quietly. 'You haven't made a fuck-up of your life, have you? I presume from this little journey we're making, you and your beloved think there's something to be salvaged from this sorry mess'. Illya smiled reflectively.

'Don't be so hard on yourself. Just listen to what I have to say, then you can decide what you want to do about it. Whatever you decide, I'll go along with it. If you want me to turn the car round and retreat back to Germany, that's fine; if you want to continue, that's fine too. Only think about it first. Believe me, Napoleon, and I never thought I would be giving you this sort of advice, your happiness and perhaps your life depends on it'.

Illya began to relate what Therese had told him that morning. He found it hard to talk about such a personal subject, even with his partner, someone he had shared the most intimate moments with, who knew and understood him perhaps, better than anyone else, although he was beginning to believe that his wife had known him in a previous life, so well was she able to read him. But this wasn't about him. And it was not the easiest of news to convey either.

Illya wondered what Napoleon's thoughts about children really were. He had been seemingly delighted by his partner's news about the baby, and had delighted in winding him up about how it would be after the he or she was born. However, he had rarely discussed his own feelings about fatherhood, even after he had become engaged to Jo. Illya had met Napoleon's own parents a number of times, when he and Napoleon had been working in Canada. His father was a second generation Italian- American and a lawyer specialising in criminal law. He was a highly intelligent, gifted orator who had taken on and won some difficult cases as a public defender. He had what people called a 'penetrating' mind, and could be intimidating, Illya thought, at first sight. However, Illya and he had hit it off almost instantly, and they had spent a long time discussing the Soviet Union and its Gulag system, until Solo Senior was dragged away by Napoleon's mother.

Marie-Bernadette Solo was French, from the Charentes region. Fabian Solo had met her before the war, when she had come to Montreal for a holiday with her aunt and uncle who lived there. She was quintessentially French, from her exquisite taste in décor and clothes, to the wonderful cuisine which she served whenever they visited. Bernadette treated Illya like a younger son, even babied him, so Napoleon thought, giving him all sorts of special treats from the kitchen, and attempting (and failing) to improve his appearance. Napoleon's grandparents had moved to Montreal when he was a child, but they had kept their nationality as Americans, thinking that they would return one day, when things were better. They never did, and so their son and grandson had grown up, the child and grandchild of alien families in a foreign land. Napoleon liked to think that it gave him some understanding of Illya's background, but his young life was a settled and happy one, an only child growing up in an affluent, safe and secure environment. Illya imagined that the Solos would welcome a grandchild, but he was also sure that they had long ago accepted that, with their son's lifestyle, the possibility might be a remote one. One thing though, he was absolutely sure about, was that they would love Josefina.

When he had finished talking, there was a silence between them, but not an unpleasant one. Illya got up and fetched them another cup of the indifferent coffee, pushing it towards Solo carefully. Napoleon picked up the coffee and sipped it. He looked at his watch.

'Well' he said slowly, 'we'd better get a move on, otherwise they'll be a terrible traffic jam to sit through if it gets to rush hour'. Illya's face broke into a grin momentarily, changing back to his usual unreadable expression as he jumped to his feet. 'I'll drive' Napoleon shouted above the traffic, as they exited the building; 'my delicate constitution's had enough of your break-neck speeds on the roundabouts to last me at least till we get back to the safety of blocks'.

Illya made a phone call to Therese before they set off. His university days in Cambridge came in useful for coping with everyday life in England, including the mysteries of the public telephone box. There seemed to be a tremendously complicated system involving four large pennies and pressing button A or button B, and Napoleon was glad he didn't have to do it. Eventually he came out of the red box with a beatific smile on his face, and handed over the keys to the car.

'You'll have to stop being so cheerful all the time when we get back to New York' Napoleon said, 'nobody will recognise you, especially with all that hair'. Illya gave him a winsome look, and got into the car.

'I'm quite sure I will return to my usual miserable self as soon as I start work with you again, Napoleon, and no doubt it will also be ' _sans cheveux longs'_ as well, if Waverly has anything to do with it' he replied wistfully. 'Anyway, if you think my hair is long, wait until you meet the brother in law' he added, sitting back and closing his eyes.

xxxxxx

Therese heard the car pull up on the gravel in the drive, and ran to the door, shouting to Fernando as she wrenched it open. In seconds he was in her arms, his head buried in her hair.

'Uh-hum, if you've quite finished the love scene from 'Gone with the Wind . . . .' Napoleon said acerbically, as he slammed the door shut. Therese extricated herself from her Russian and almost skipped towards him to hug him. Napoleon never ceased to admire the sheer _joie de vive_ with which she did everything. Whenever he had called at their house, she seemed to be in several places at once, sorting out photographs, or playing some interesting tune on one of their musical instruments, or in the garden, or in the kitchen. She was incredibly graceful and sweet too; if they went anywhere, people soon gathered and even the most miserable of their colleagues seemed to be charmed by her sense of fun and affirmation of life. However, Tess's sense of stillness and calm was a large part of who she was, and in some senses, the strength of the marriage. She really was the perfect partner for the serious, cerebral, rather vulnerable man standing smiling despite himself, in front of the house. Now, where was his perfect partner, he wondered.

As if she knew the exact thought running through his mind, Therese got hold of his hand and pulled him back towards the gates at the end of the drive. Across the road a large expanse of flat, sandy beach stretched to the distant shore, with an immense, perfect blue sky overhead. In the distance, the green-grey hills of Wales could just be seen; and at the edge of the sea, a lone figure was standing, looking out towards the rolling, blue waves.

'There. You see her?' Therese said simply. She let go of his hand, and he walked across the road and started to move toward the distant figure; slowly at first, and then, when she turned, quickening his step, then running at last.

Illya had reached the gates and stood with Therese, gazing at them getting nearer to each other. She could feel a kind of tension in his body as Napoleon drew closer, as if he was willing something to happen. She turned towards him.

'Let's go in and leave them, shall we?'. He sighed; a deep satisfying sigh, nodded, and holding her hand, returned to the house.

xxxxxxx

'Will Christmas be enough time?' Napoleon asked, as Marisa McCaffery continued to supervise the passing of the pasta through the machine by her two daughters.

'It depends, Napoleon, what sort of wedding you want', she said, without looking up. 'No, Illya, don't be so gentle; put your back into it!' she ordered. Napoleon leaned back on the kitchen wall, watching his partner's mother in law instructing him in the making of pasta. Napoleon knew, of course, how it was done, and could turn his hand to a variety of dishes fairly easily, but it was amusing watching this petite woman bossing the serious Russian, head bent in concentration, in the culinary arts. He seemed to be getting the hang of it, though, even though he appeared covered in flour, even in his hair, where he had unconsciously run his hands through it.

In the end, the reunion had been sudden and intense. They knew that, whatever the future held for them, their need for each other was all-encompassing, without compromise. A commitment had to be made. They had decided to see if they could marry soon, in England. The McCafferys were delighted, the Irish relatives relieved at only having to traverse the Irish Sea to get there, and Napoleon's parents, after they had recovered from the shock, had readily agreed to be wherever they wanted them. Not surprisingly, they had never taken the engagement too seriously, knowing their son, but, after speaking to Jo on the phone, Bernadette in particular, knew that at last he had chosen well .

' _Josephine! Quel nom!'_ she had said, 'but, _ma chere_ , are you sure you want to take him on? He is a difficult man, _bien sur_ , and I can say that, being his mother!'. Jo glanced across at Napoleon and smiled. And to think that she had nearly walked away from that.

'Oh yes, I think I can handle him' she replied.

Waverly had been surprisingly reasonable about the delay in them returning. It appeared that there might be quite a lot of work they would need to do in Germany which would keep them busy in the next few weeks. Illya could return to work, starting in Berlin, and David Mueller had spoken to Alexander Waverly and persuaded him that it would not be an extended holiday for either of them. Illya had also spoken to Waverly about Fernando.

Ever since their little adventure together in Mallorca, Fernando had been increasingly sure that he wanted to join UNCLE. Illya had done his best to act as Devil's advocate, presenting all the difficulties of the job in as black a way as he could, but deep inside him he felt, pretty compellingly, that this man might make a very good agent. Of course, to look at him, as he said to Napoleon, one wouldn't think he was suitable, but then, he was hardly one to comment on that. After speaking to Waverly, it had been agreed that Fernando would come to New York for a formal interview, and before that, investigations into his personal life would be made.

'You do realise they will pry into everything about you?' Illya had said to him, as they sat in the garden on the evening of the 'reunion'. 'There are many things I love about my job; my partnership with Napoleon, the work in the lab, the travel, and many other things I won't bore you with now, but their interference in your personal life is something you have to accept, and it's total' he added. 'It's hard sometimes to keep your individuality, so just be warned'. Fernando had nodded, lying back on the grass, his hair splayed out like a fan behind him. Illya hoped they didn't knock too much individuality out of him, but his old life, his attitudes and most of all his appearance, would certainly have to change, he thought, rather sadly.

Illya also rang Sabi to give her the news. She was characteristically thrilled, and pleased that they were coming back to Germany for a while before they all returned to New York.

'I will have to rush out to get my wedding outfit' she said enthusiastically. 'By the way, darling, you'll have to think about a little disguise if you're going to get anywhere near the charming Dr Engel, Illyusha. Do you want me to organise it?. Illya sighed.

'I suppose so. Thank you Sabi. I imagine Rudi will be involved in all of this?'.

' _Naturlich_ , darling'.

They lay in bed on the night before Illya and Napoleon returned to Germany, with the sound of the sea, a different sea to Mallorca, gently ebbing and flowing into the darkness of the room. Without any clothes, Illya could see the changes in his wife's body, making him treat her gently, afraid to hurt her.

'It's alright, you won't damage either of us' Therese had whispered, as he lay between her opened legs, his hair dampened by their lovemaking. Illya rolled back onto the bed, and began to kiss her breasts, adopting his usual position. Therese, with a smile, lay on her side, pushing back the wild hair from his face. 'So I'll see you back at home, _corazon_. And don't get hurt, or let this Rudi do something awful to you in Section whatever it is. I don't want to open the door to someone I don't recognise, right?'

'Mm. I'll try and restrain him. You two should meet some time; I think you'd get on'. By the way, apart from wedding preparations, what are you going to be up to? I'm expecting Fernando to give me a full report when I get home'. Therese put the light on and sat up. Her husband's stubbly, suntanned face stared at her from the sheets. 'What's the matter?' he said, a slight frown passing across his brows.

'It's Fernando. He's so young, Illya, and I think he thinks this is some sort of adventure out of a James Bond novel that he's having'. Illya sat up and pulled her towards him.

'He's not that young, you just treat him like that' he said quietly. 'I have tried to give him an honest idea of what it's like, as much as I'm allowed to, but I have to say that I think he's probably 'ideal material' as they say. I know your family is worried about it, but if he decides on this, and he's accepted, then isn't that what you all wanted, for him to find something he really wants to do?'.

Therese looked sharply at him, then kissed him and put the light out.

'I suppose so' she said quietly. 'Just remember, back in one piece and no weird haircut, OK?'.

xxxxxxxx

'Welcome back, Napoleon, and ah, Mr Kuryakin, it's good to see you again. It looks as if marriage agrees with you, _ja_?'. Illya was getting a little bored with being told this, but looking in the mirror at the apartment at the happy, relaxed man who stared back at him, he supposed it was true. He also supposed he would have to endure the same mantra once he returned to New York. David Mueller also appeared to have suffered a slight personality improvement, he thought; since becoming head of UNCLE Germany, he had adopted a pointedly relaxed relationship with his colleagues, which Illya found a little hard to accept after the way he had been treated by Mueller in the last few months. However, as Napoleon pointed out, Mueller had been acting a part just as much as Kuryakin had been made to, when he was Valentin Rostov.

They had come straight from the airport to the meeting, so there had been no time to change, even if Illya had had anything formal to change into. Illya glanced at Napoleon, sitting nearly opposite him round the large table in Mueller's office, with Sabi at his side. Outwardly, he was appropriately dressed, as ever, but it was the inward change that the Russian perceived in his friend. There was a calmness about him now; the old intentness was back, together with the sense of humour. Illya closed his eyes and breathed out gently, and gratefully.

Mueller had pressed the button at his desk to reveal the screen behind his head. The offices of Bolt Pharmaceuticals West Germany, were revealed; a modern building, an 'L' shaped block of about five floors only, covered in a rather brutal pure white stone cladding, and hidden from the road by use of extensive and clever landscaping of the grounds around it, located near a small town in the middle of Bavaria.

'The left hand side 'arm', which strangely is called the 'East' wing, has a small foyer, with the manufacturing sections on the ground and first floor' Mueller pointed out. 'Above this, there are offices, and then guest accommodation on the top two floors. The other 'arm', or 'West' wing, which is bigger, appears to comprise of an extensive lecture hall and other rooms devoted to entertainment, as well as social facilities for the staff; you know, gym, shops etc. Bolt has this policy about staff, interestingly. They all live on site, like a sort of community, and they have an almost zero staff turnover ratio. We've tried to trace anyone who worked for Bolt's and then moved on, but rather strangely, our agents were totally unable to find a past employee who was in other employment now, or a retired employee who was still alive even', Mueller added. 'Incidentally, the upper floors are seemingly devoted to research laboratories and libraries, the fifth floor being entirely the private domain of Miss Bolt and her staff. Our agents noticed that there seemed no way of passing from one wing to another, except on the ground floor'.

The agents looked at each other, Sabi with her characteristic raised eyebrows. Mueller continued.

'I'd like to hear all your opinions on the following questions which arise out of what we've discovered so far, which, looking at these papers, doesn't seem a lot. First of all, and a crucial one, what is the connection between THRUSH and Bolt Enterprises? Secondly, what is going on at the island Mr Kuryakin has identified for us? And how does this connect with Bolt Enterprises, and ultimately with THRUSH? '.

'It would seem, Sir' Illya replied, looking at the papers he had been given regarding the forthcoming conference, 'that Miss Bolt is the obvious key to the puzzle. I'll have to look at the pharmacological information in more detail, but it looks as if there is a strong likelihood that they are developing a drug which will potentiate the effects of conventional hypnotherapy on the subject. When they were controlling me, it was the maintenance of the control that proved the most difficult. It looks from this as if one dose of this drug could be given which would then leave the subject open to control for an unlimited time by an experienced hypnotherapist'.

'I understand that completely, Illya', Mueller said, 'but how does that connect with what is going on on that island? And with all this stuff about 'psychosurgery' that Waverly was telling me about?'.

Sabi put down the papers she was reading on the desk.

'I imagine', she began, 'that it goes like this. Miss Bolt wants to rule the world, and she wants it to be a world where women are in charge. An interesting idea, eh boys?'

'I could warm to it' Napoleon replied.

'In order to rule the world', Sabi continued, 'Miss Bolt at some point has got involved with THRUSH; in fact I would guess that she is quite high up in THRUSH now, even at her age, because she is not only incredibly rich and powerful, she is also incredibly clever. She is a pharmacologist herself, with the wealth and power of a vast pharmacological multi-national company to support her plans. But she is also a trained hypnotherapist with an unhealthy interest in control. As you said, darling', she said, looking at Illya, 'she is aiming to use a combination of drugs, surgery and hypnotism to exercise control over a long period of time. But I think she is after a much longer and more permanent control through selective breeding; the 'l _ebensborn_ ' research which is being carried out on the island of Peronella. From what you saw, darling, the island seems to be almost entirely composed of women. But, if they are trying to breed a new master race, where are the men?'

Illya's frowning face began to clear.

'Ah. I'm beginning to make the connections' he said.

'Well I'm glad you are, comrade; pardon me for being a klutz, but would you care to explain them to me in language for the agent in the street' Napoleon enquired, looking at them both. Illya sighed.

'I think what Sabi is saying is, that unless all the men are hiding, their 'contribution', if you take my meaning, is being taken to the island, presumably in some sort of frozen state, to further the foundation of the new master race. I presume then, the selected offspring will be subject to the loving hands of Dr Engel, who will by now have perfected her psychosurgical techniques and be ready to create the next generation of world leaders'.

'Precisely, darling' Sabi continued, 'but they will be world leaders with a difference. They will be without any shred of compassion or love, because they will have been brought up in the same way by those women; and lastly, I am certain that they will _all_ be women'.

'So Miss Bolt is founding her own evil dynasty' Napoleon said quietly. 'So why was she so interested in Illya when we were in Madrid? Is he on the list of superstuds?'. There was a sudden silence in the room. Napoleon thought he knew the answer to his own question, but wanted to see the reaction of the others before he expressed it. He was surprised by Mueller's response.

'Are you sure that she was looking at Illya? Tell me what happened again' he asked. Napoleon related the story, while Illya, apparently not really listening, read the pharmacological report from Bolt. Mueller thought for a few seconds.

'From what I understand, this woman has lived with women all her life, has never had any sort of normal relationship with any man, including her father, and now it seems, intends to run the world through women. When she appeared to be staring at Illya, Napoleon, could it not have been a woman she was looking at so intently? Was there a woman there with you?'. Napoleon noticed his partner's head look up, the blue eyes suddenly focused on Mueller.

'Yes. Tess was there. My wife, Therese.'.

xxxxxxxx

The Zugspitze mountain range dominated the view from Li Hua's window, and she turned away from its threatening presence. The apartment, on the fifth floor of the west wing, was luxurious in an ultra-modern fashion; a large space bordered by the windows of the apartment was covered in hard, black marble, on which was laid out a long, corner suite sofa of white leather, slightly softened by a number of black and white patterned cushions thrown upon it. Concealed lighting highlighted the hard contrasts between the floor and walls, which were painted a uniform white. A deep pile red rug covered the area in front of the sofa, like a large rectangular blood stain on the black floor. Slightly raised up from the living area, the kitchen ran along an area of blank wall in one corner; an oasis of steel in a black and white universe. The only division in the living space lay where the entrance to the bedrooms and bathroom were; a rather narrow corridor leading to three plain white doors. On the walls of the living area, a collection of large, framed, black and white photographs were arranged. Landscapes contrasted with portraits of the people connected with them. The photographer's initials were signed on each one. TMK.

The intercom buzzing interrupted Li Hua's study of the photograph of a Shaker house; the curving staircase had been taken from above, and she traced her finger along the snail-like shape, as she heard the lift approaching. She walked over to the intercom and pressed a button. The lift door slid silently open to reveal Dr Winnifred Engel, holding a slim file to her starched white lab coat.

'Ah, Dr Engel, welcome to Bolt Pharmaceuticals. I hope your accommodation is suitable?'. Li Hua turned from the photographs to face the doctor, whose feet echoed on the hard floor as she walked across to join her.

' _Ja, Sehr gut, fraulein direktor_ '. Dr Engel began to stare at the photographs behind Li Hua's head, her mouth a thin line across her face. 'I see you have chosen the photographs _his_ wife has taken' she spat out, as if mentioning Kuryakin, even in this way, was distasteful to her.

'Yes. They're good, don't you think? I bought them in New York when she had an exhibition. I bought another one too, but I haven't put it up in deference to your sensibilities my dear doctor; and mine too, of course'. Li Hua opened a drawer of a large mirrored chest of drawers next to them, and selected a manilla folder lying inside. She drew the folder out onto the top of the drawers and opened it. A familiar face looked out at them from the photograph. A harsh choking sound emerged from Dr Engel's throat.

'Don't worry Doctor; he'll soon be yours, and you can play with him to your heart's content. Just make sure that this time, he doesn't get up off your little operating table in a hurry; well, just make sure he doesn't get off it until he's entirely under your control, won't you?.

xxxxxxxx

'I think it would be a high risk strategy for Illya to go to the conference in full view, with Miss Bolt taking centre stage, and probably her medical director, and even her assistant, in the wings' Mueller said. 'However, I hope you won't mind me saying, Napoleon, that Illya's understanding of pharmacology is better than yours'. Napoleon smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

'Not at all, but that being the case, how exactly are we going to infiltrate this conference?' he replied.

Mueller flipped a switch. The pictures of the Bolt factory were instantly replaced by the picture of a man dominating the screen. He looked archetypically German, almost to the point of caricature. The blond hair was cut in a military style crew cut, making his head appear rather wide and flat. Beneath the large expanse of brow, blue eyes sparkled in a rather jovial way, as if Father Christmas had just taken off his disguise. The picture must have been taken at some German cultural event, for it was just possible to see the top of the leather _lederhosen_ appearing in the photograph.

'Gentlemen. This is Ernst Baumgartner, the THRUSH representative for Southern Germany, notably Bavaria'. Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, a smirk filling Napoleon's face, and a look of horror fading to resignation on the face of the Russian, his eyes closing for a few seconds and then re-opening, a set expression on his face. Mueller appeared not to have noticed, but Sabi had.

'David, you're not expecting Illya to disguise himself as _him_ are you? He is a _very_ big man!' Mueller looked across at Sabi, then, with a smile, at Illya.

'No Sabi, even Mr Kuryakin would not be capable of growing six inches in a day, would you, Illya?' Illya breathed a sigh of relief. 'No, but, just on the off chance we might need it, we've been feeding Mr Baumgartner information about his long lost cousin Wolfgang, for the past six months. Wolfgang in fact died about five years ago, but we accidentally received intelligence that Ernst was trying to track him down, so we've created a new Wolfgang we can pull out of the woodwork at the right time. I think now would seem to be about the right time'.

Illya's eyes closed and opened again, digesting the information. 'I presume that Ernst has not seen a photograph of Wolfgang then?' he said, looking at Napoleon. Mueller shook his head. 'So what sort of role am I going to play as Ernst's cousin, and how am I going to get into the conference'? Illya asked, looking at the photograph on the wall.

'You are not going to play any role as Ernst's cousin, Illya; that role goes to Napoleon. I think we need to put you in a far less obvious place'.

'Excuse me for asking, David' Napoleon interrupted, the smile frozen on his face, 'then, just what is Wolfgang's role in all this going to be?'

'Ernst has persuaded THRUSH that Wolfgang would be a very suitable addition to their ranks, especially since he's an expert in psychiatry and so will be able to assist cousin Ernst, who patently is not. So cousin Wolfgang is to be introduced at the conference and also to meet cousin Ernst for the first time in twenty years. I'm sure it will be a very affecting reunion' Mueller added.

'So where am I when Napoleon is cavorting round wearing his _lederhosen_? Illya asked.

'You, my dear Illya, will be less obviously placed, if our plans of the conference room are correct, on a mezzanine with the other interpreters. It appears that Miss Bolt has thought of everything; simultaneous translations from her lectures are being provided, rather like as at the UN. So, you should be able to speak directly to Napoleon through his headphones. We have an agent already making sure that the right interpreter is attached to the right delegate. It might be an idea, though, if you don't look too obviously like Illya Kuryakin, in case you need to have a little wander through the grounds, for example' Mueller explained, smiling. 'I'm sure that Rudi and his assistants will assist you to look a little less like a . .'

'Beach bum?' Illya replied.

xxxxxx

'I suppose we had better head off for 'fairyland' then, Illya said morosely, finishing off the last of a large strudel shoved in front of him by Helga, who, with Ingrid, had come down from Medical to lunch with him and Napoleon. The girls giggled, thinking his euphemism hilarious. They too had congratulated Illya on looking ' _wunderbar_ ' and stroked his hair, commenting on how much it had grown since they last saw him.

'Not really surprising, since I didn't have any hair when they last saw me' he grumbled to Napoleon.

'I don't know why you're so miserable about it' replied Napoleon, 'it appears you've drawn the slightly longer straw for a change. All you have to do is to smarten up a bit, while I seem to have the part of the comedy German'.

'But Napolina, no-one knows what Wolfgang looks like, so you don't have to look like his cousin, really. In fact Illyusha has to change more than you, in case that _horrible_ Elena or the even more horrible Dr Engel sees him' Sabi said, putting her arm through Illya's.

'I think you should come down with us, Sabi' Napoleon said, 'just in case something is lost in translation, as it were'.

Rudi was waiting for them, a small rack of suits, together with a considerable number of shirts, shoes, hats and socks neatly stacked in boxes on a long table at the back of the room.

'Rudi', Sabi started, Napoleon is worried you will make him ugly just before his wedding, so be kind to him, OK?'

'Sabina Klose, what do you mean?' Rudi cooed. 'Mr Solo could _never_ look anything but suave and sophisticated in my hands. It's _this_ one we always have trouble with' he said, pointing at Illya, who had turned away to look through the suits. Rudi ran across and smacked his hand.

'Illya Kuryakin, I'll be the one to decide which suit you wear, but we've got some work to do on _this_ first' he said, running his hand through Illya's hair. Off you go, Sabi darling, and leave these lovely boys with Uncle Rudi'.

Illya sat down on a chair in the corner.

'You go first Napoleon, and I'll just sit here and enjoy the last of my holiday look' he groaned, sliding back and closing his eyes.

'Oh no you don't' Rudi replied, pressing a button in the wall. 'I have an _assistant',_ he replied in a rather fake French accent, 'who can be getting on with you while Napoleon and I decide his 'look'. ' The door opened to reveal a buxom dark-haired girl clutching a shade card. 'Mizzi, take Mr Kuryakin please. Try a number 21 Raven, and then it's a standard No 6 haircut. And don't take any lip'.

Napoleon sighed. Why did _he_ always manage to land some really great looking girl at these moments? Not that the Russian would be appreciative. He had the usual number 6 scowl on his face, Napoleon thought, as the girl pushed him out of the room.

'I hope it washes out', Napoleon remarked, 'otherwise you're going to have one pissed wife after you. And just what is a number 6 haircut?'.

'There isn't one' Rudi answered, laughing wickedly, pouting his lips. 'We just made that up to wind him up. Mizzi will think of something _very_ creative to transform him; just wait and see'.

Xxxxxx

The conference was to begin with a formal dinner in what Napoleon imagined was usually the staff dining room. But, from the menu handed out with the conference documents, it would be several notches above the usual serve-yourself commissary that he and Illya usually dined in at UNCLE. They had travelled to the factory by different routes; Illya on the train and Napoleon by car, so he hadn't yet seen his partner since he was dragged off by Mizzi. Solo looked at himself in the mirror of the car. Rudi had insisted that he wear a traditional German tweed suit, which hid the packing and his gun, making him look thirty pounds heavier. So much for 'suave and sophisticated'. His hair had been cut into a more severe style all over, and the rimless glasses completed the look. He glanced across at the alpine style hat on the seat, and decided to leave it there; that was one bridge too far.

He was registered in the foyer and shown to his room, on the fourth floor of the west wing of the building. The room was functional, but comfortable, furnished in an ultra-modern style. He swept the room for any devices there might be, then lay on the bed and opened his communicator. The familiar voice answered; he must have arrived before him.

'Kuryakin. Where are you?'

'In my room; fifth floor, room 505. Can you get here without attracting any attention?' Napoleon asked. 'Where are you, anyway?'

'Room 485, below you and a little to the left. Obviously, minions like me are not allowed to stay on the fifth floor. And yes, Napoleon, I can get to you without attracting any attention. I'll be with you when I've unpacked, about ten minutes. Kuryakin out'.

He was bothering to unpack now. Napoleon was impressed. He dragged his case onto the bed and carefully unpacked the evening dress and the other suit and shirts Rudi had supplied. They all looked rather large. He had also brought along a more normal sized set of clothing just in case. He didn't want to have to escape holding a large pair of trousers round his waist. He was shoving the case in the wardrobe when there was a quiet rap on the door.

Napoleon opened the door and stared.

'I nearly didn't recognise you, comrade'. Napoleon was so used to the straight blond hair and the penetrating blue eyes, that he was momentarily completely thrown by the change in Illya's appearance. The length of Illya's hair really wasn't that much different at all he noticed, but it looked a little shorter, because, incredibly to Solo, it was wavy, and a deep dark brown. It was combed away from his face, making the eyes more noticeable somehow. More noticeable, because they were now a greenish-brown colour. Metal-rimmed glasses completed the look. With his tan still barely faded, he looked vaguely southern European even.

'Mizzi assures me that it will all wash out; I musn't get it wet, so let's hope for fine weather, eh?' Illya said, cheerfully, as he walked into the room past his astonished partner.

'How come you got the really smart suit, and I ended up with this thing?' Napoleon moaned, as he looked his partner up and down. Illya's suit was a very dark, almost two-tone grey, a perfect fit, perfectly matched with a white shirt and an unusual patterned tie. He even had a really lovely pair of soft black leather shoes on.

'Don't sulk, Napoleon, it gives you an even bigger double chin', the Russian replied, smiling, and patting Napoleon's rather large false beer gut, as he walked past. Rudi had made matters worse by padding out Napoleon's face a little with some sort of latex material.

'Drink? Napoleon wandered over to the mini-bar and extricated a bottle of vodka. He tossed some ice into some glasses and handed one to Illya. The Russian took a sip and made a face; obviously the vodka was not up to his standards. 'So', Solo continued, pulling some papers out of a briefcase on the table, 'shall we go through the entertainment plan for today and tomorrow?'

Illya sat down on the sofa facing Solo.

'Well, as far as I understand it from Mueller, in the next half hour, your cousin Ernst will be calling for you to take you to drinks and then dinner in the suite which I think may be on this floor of this wing. I presume you've read the briefing papers about Wolfgang and Ernst?'

'Oh _Ja_ ' Napoleon replied, clicking his heels together, then sitting down on the chair near Kuryakin, 'they sound a real bundle of laughs'. Illya smirked at the thought then continued.

'Try to keep off any scientific talk before tomorrow, although that shouldn't be too difficult, as I understand that Ernst is completely lacking in any scientific understanding whatsoever, so he won't know even if you display your lamentably poor understanding of chemistry and pharmacology, Napoleon' Illya added, looking over his glasses at his friend.

'And what will _you_ be doing while Ernie and I are playing happy families?' Napoleon enquired archly, looking the Russian up and down.

'I, Napoleon, will be making the acquaintance of an old school chum from my days spent on the playing fields of Eton, and then when you are enjoying a nice glass of schnaps on your tour of the laboratories with your cousin and his little feathered friends, my chum and I will be making a grand tour of the grounds to see what, or even who, we can pick up that might be useful' Illya replied. 'And I will also be trying to avoid coming into contact with a certain doctor and her assistant' he said, raising his eyebrows. 'Hopefully, we will both emerge unscathed, but I think it would be best if we don't meet here again. I'll contact you later this evening and arrange a rendezvous'.

'Excuse me for asking, _old boy'_ Napoleon replied, but do I know your old chum?'

'Oh yes, you know him' Illya replied, smiling.

CHAPTER 6

Napoleon had only just secured the bowtie round his neck when a robust knock alerted him to the arrival of his cousin. He looked at himself in the mirror, cringing slightly at the haircut and double chin, before sauntering over to the door to open it. The large, bordering on immense figure of Ernst Baumgartner filled the doorway, a radiant beam suffusing his face. He appeared to have been stuffed into his clothes, his corpulent waist spilling over from the cummerbund that was trying, and failing to keep everything in place round his midriff.

'Wolfie! At last!' he bawled in a deep Bavarian accent, clasping Napoleon to his ample chest with very large, powerful arms. Solo managed to exclaim 'Ernie, it's been too long, _nicht wahr_?' into Ernst's dinner jacket, before he was released and was able to step back and allow him into the room. Ernst strode across the room and threw himself onto the settee, where Illya had been sitting just minutes before. Solo allowed himself a wry smile at the difference between his two companions; the slight, now sultry, Russian, and the immense, blond German. Looking at him, Napoleon was confident that the conversation was not going to reach any intellectual heights.

'Now, Ernie, a drink before we go down, or is it across?' Napoleon ventured, opening the fridge. 'I think we have some of your favourite schnaps here, remember?' he continued, affecting a guffaw which Ernst immediately responded to with loud, roaring laughter.

' _Ja, Ja,_ that was a very long time ago, eh?' Ernst replied, 'when we were both a little less, shall we say, 'well rounded'?'. To Napoleon's dismay, he burst out with another great roar. It was going to be a very long night, he thought.

They managed to exit the room after the second schnaps, Ernst already swaying with the effect of the alcohol. The Bavarian seemed to know his way round the building quite well, however. The two 'wings' were in fact the two parts of the 'L' shaped building, but strangely, it seemed impossible to walk from one wing to another, the visitor having to go to the ground floor and then walk across the vast ground floor concourse towards the lifts on the other side. To Napoleon's surprise, they headed for the lifts to go downstairs.

'Don't worry, Wolfie' Ernst said knowingly, 'there is a general drinks party first for everyone; you know, the medical representatives, and all the other hangers-on, and even those interpreter boys. Then, those of us who are _special_ guests will be dining with Miss Bolt on the fifth floor. Watch out for the waitresses, Wolfie; they remind me of the old days, but a little bit more butch, eh?'. Napoleon knew what was coming next. In the confines of the lift, the laugh nearly split his eardrums.

The drinks party was being held in a medium sized room near the main Lecture theatre on the first floor of the West wing. Ernst was right about the girls, for once. Illya had told him about the guards on the island of Peronella, and it appeared that these girls were also part of some sort of elite women's group of Bolt's making. They were all tall, good looking in a rather hard way, with a very well developed physique. They were wearing a sort of variation of the guard's uniform that Illya had described, only this time, the caps, jackets and machine guns had been replaced by black silk shirts and little red bowties. Solo looked up and down at the black leather trousers and narrow boots finishing off the outfit, wincing at their hair, each one a clone of their leader's cropped fur.

'Drink, _meine herren_?' A familiar voice jerked him out of his thoughts. He gulped slightly as he came face to face with a smiling Sabi, drinks tray in hand. The uniform fitted her extremely well, although it was a shock to see her there. She drew Napoleon slightly away from the now merry Ernst, who had begun to relate some hilarious story to a miserable faced man standing near them.

'Don't make a fuss darling. I couldn't tell you or blondie, because the orders have only just come through from New York. Our Uncle is anxious to have someone follow through from here to that nice Mediterranean holiday destination your brother visited recently, and of course you and your brother don't really have the right anatomy for it, do you darling?' she said, her eyes huge in the frame of the cropped silver blond hair.

'Yes, well 'brownie' as he is now, will think just the same as I do, that our Uncle is putting you in a very vulnerable position, without any protection from your brothers, _nicht wahr_?' he replied, looking round to see if Ernst was heading back towards them. She shrugged slightly and moved away, after noticing another of the girls looking in their direction. Ernst appeared behind him just at the same time as Napoleon noticed Illya appear in the door and wave at someone, but not him.

'Good God, if it's not old Conti of the lower fourth, or should I say 'In _conti_. . . . . .nent' of the lower fourth, eh what?!'

'Still bending over for Matron, Prackers?' came the laconic reply, unbelievably issuing from his partner's mouth. Solo swivelled his head from Illya to the originator of this strange conversation. Vaz was standing there, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a large drink in his hand. He walked straight past Napoleon and came up to Illya, slapping him on the back. Ernst stared disaprovingly.

'What are those English idiots talking about?' he said incredulously, 'although they don't look as if they come from the Home Counties do they?' he roared.

'Permit me to explain, Ernie, as I have spent a little time in England and have had to deal with these private, or as they say 'public' school types in the world of business. The man with the brown wavy hair that is so long he looks like a girl, ja?, his name is Daniel Conti. Apparently his father was Italian and his mother was Scottish, so that is why he looks like a Spanish waiter, ja? The other man is called Prakash Halavat-Kar, an Indian. You know, the British Empire is full of idiots like him with a posh accent, sent over to get a good education in the mother country. You notice, Ernie, they make jokes about each other's name and about their school; rude jokes, and stupid ones, don't you think?

Ernst continued to look incredulous.

'But who is Matron, and why is he bending over for her?' he said.

'I think some things are best left unexplained' Napoleon replied, shaking his head.

Illya had noticed Sabi as soon as he entered the room. He walked over to a quieter corner with Vaz, still smiling and appearing to make crass comments in a perfect upper class British accent.

'What is Sabi doing here?' he whispered to the Indian as soon as they were clear of any possible eavesdroppers.

'Apparently there's a selection process going on tonight, dear boy, and the lucky winners will represent the new order in the 'Mother of the Century' competition, to be held at a Mediterranean island near you any time soon', Vaz replied, still appearing to outsiders to be grinning at some asinine joke of his fellow interpreter. At Illya's horrified look, he continued, 'don't worry, her uncle has made sure she scores a zero in the maternal stakes, at least that's what she told me' he added.

Illya's face set into a hard stare. He could see the advantages of sending a female agent under cover to expose Bolt and her plans, but it was a high risk strategy, and it was very difficult to see how Sabi could be given any back up if things took a turn for the worse. He sighed, took a sip of his drink, and then froze.

Another woman had entered the room, this time with a slightly different uniform. There was no red bow-tie. Instead, the black silk shirt was edged on the collar and cuffs with a single, thin gold line. He hadn't recognised her immediately, because his memory of her was so utterly different to the woman who was now walking towards him.

He estimated that she must have lost at least a third of her body weight. The plump, verging on obese woman he had known once, was now a sinewy shadow of her former self. The uniform showed up her powerful physique well, and the traditional headscarf had of course been replaced by the ubiquitous Bolt hairstyle. He looked down immediately, hoping that Elena Fedorenko would not be as good at noticing him as he had been at noticing her.

'Vaz' he murmured, 'I think I need to make myself scarce for a little while. I'll see you at dinner. In the meantime, I would be very obliged if you could divert that woman's gaze from me in the next minute'. Vaz stared at his colleague's face, then at the stern-faced woman heading their way. He carefully backed away from Illya, crashing straight into the Ukrainian.

'Oh, I am most awfully sorry dear girl, I'm such a clumsy oaf' he bawled, grabbing her arm and propelling her in the opposite direction to the fleeing Russian. She smiled a thin smile at Vaz, looking over his shoulder at the man who was trying to leave the room so quickly. Something about his build, and especially his walk reminded her of someone. She shrugged and moved off, checking that the girls were doing the job they had been instructed to do. The new recruit looked good, and seemed both strong and intelligent. It would be interesting to see if she ended up on the island, and in what role.

Napoleon had not failed to notice his partner making a quicker than normal exit from the room, and the slight fracas that accompanied it. He edged closer to Vaz, making sure that he kept Ernst in his sights.

'What was all that about?' he murmured to the Indian's back.

'Darned if I know, old man, but he looked as if he'd seen a ghost and then asked me out of the blue if I'd create a diversion with that Amazon over there' he replied, pointing in Elena's direction with a slight tilt of his head. Napoleon frowned, glancing in her direction. He whistled gently under his breath.

'My, my, my, quite a transformation I might say' he said, almost to himself. Vaz turned slightly, staring at him. 'Oh', said Napoleon, 'Of course you weren't there. That young lady is the one who had serious designs on our Russian friend, until the present Mrs Kuryakin persuaded her otherwise'.

'I thought she was a bit of an old frump' Vaz whispered, looking at the Ukrainian woman, who had now stationed herself at the entrance to the room, looking inwards towards the assembled guests.

'Well yes, she was, but it seems that since she joined the Bolt organisation, she's benefitted from the fitness programme, if not the beauty therapy' Napoleon replied, walking away from Vaz as he noticed Ernst looking round the room.

Ernst bustled over to Napoleon's side, beaming.

'Ah, Wolfie, there you are! She is coming!' he boomed, indicating the entrance to the room. Napoleon nodded, trying to look as thrilled with the news as Ernst appeared to be. That would explain why Elena Fedorenko was positioned there. At that moment, a momentary hush spread through the crowd, followed by a spontaneous turning of the guests towards the entrance. Solo could see why. The unmistakeable figure of Li-Hua Bolt stood there, flanked, he noticed immediately, by the equally unmistakeable figure of Dr Winnifred Engel. It was just as well, Napoleon thought, that Illya had made his exit when he did.

Bolt advanced rapidly into the room, where she was instantly surrounded by what looked like a group of ardent admirers. Napoleon recognised a number of European THRUSH Council members, notably Phineas Fleischer, looking his usual sweaty-handed self, and another man, who he'd seen in some briefing papers concerning THRUSH Europe. No doubt he would meet them all at closer quarters later; Solo hoped his disguise, and that of his partner, would stand up to it. He realised he was about to find out when he saw Miss Bolt heading in his direction.

'Ah, Mr Baumgartner, and this must be your cousin whom we've all heard so much about'.

Ernst heaved himself to attention at Napoleon's side, effusively introducing his cousin to Li-Hua Bolt. Close up, she was every bit as disturbing as she was from a distance, Napoleon decided. Her eyes reminded him of what he could only describe as a mixture of cat and cobra; a strange, piercing green colour, but long and slitted, almost reptilian. Just as on the night in Madrid, she was wearing a spiky choker round her neck; this time however, she had on the same black leather trousers and boots as her little female army, but topped by a tight-fitting metallic gold shirt. He was momentarily mesmerised by her appearance, before he realised she was continuing to speak to him.

'I understand, Mr Baumgartner, that you are an expert in psychiatry. What exactly is your field of interest, might I enquire?' she said, her eyes holding him in their unblinking gaze. Napoleon sighed. Where was Illya when you needed him, he thought. He opened his mouth, desperately summoning up something that would not make him look as if he knew nothing about the subject she was an acknowledged expert on, when there was a sudden loud clanging of a gong in the distance.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, please will you follow your guides to dinner' Elena shouted in a deep guttural voice which Napoleon remembered well. He felt his heart begin to slow down gratefully as Li-Hua turned away.

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'I presume that this is where the minions are to eat' a voice whispered in Vaz's ear, as he made his way into the large dining hall on the first floor of the West wing. He turned slightly to see Illya standing just behind him in the queue.

'The person who gave you that disguise needs shooting' Vaz replied, although he had to admit to himself that it made Kuryakin look almost unrecognisable. Illya smiled and looked out of the window as they passed.

'Good', he whispered, 'It's a fine night, so we can go out and play after dinner without fear of me coming in again looking a completely different person'. They got through the meal fairly rapidly, and then made their excuses to leave the dining hall separately. Vaz sauntered down the stairs to the foyer, and engaged the guard at the desk with some of his usual stock in trade unintelligible public school banter, as Illya crept by behind him and out of the glass doors at the side of the building. After several minutes, Vaz wished the guard farewell, leaving her with an incredulous expression on her face , as he wandered out of the front entrance, whistling the theme to the 'Dambusters'. He noted the position and numbers of the guards round the building, and then headed off down a well-lit road to the side of the building. A hand on his neck alerted him to the fact that the Russian had found him.

'What exactly did you have planned for the evening, old boy?' Vaz enquired, as they continued to stroll amicably along the road together. Illya took off his glasses, and stopped for a moment. He bent down, fiddling with something on his face, then looked up at Vaz. Even in the light of the street lamps, Vaz could now see remarkable blue eyes looking at him, rather than the smudgy hazel ones he had noticed at dinner.

'That's better' Illya said. 'I can only wear those lenses for so long before they start to make my eyes itch. Now, while you were enjoying yourself at that drinks party, I had a little look round the grounds. It appears that Miss Bolt has provided everything necessary for her staff, and I imagine that they are discouraged from leaving this little community unless they have a very good reason' he added. 'However, I did drop in at a little ice-cream parlour Miss Bolt so thoughtfully provided, and made us a little date with two _frauleins_ who might be able to help us understand just what is going on here' he said, with a wry smile on his lips.

'Lead on Macduff' Vaz replied, rubbing his hands at the thought.

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Napoleon yawned. If he had to listen to any more of Ernst's jokes he swore he would get up and punch him. Luckily, Ernst didn't appear to need an audience, and happily kept on talking most of the evening, providing Napoleon with a considerable amount of information on 'their' family, and also, more interestingly, on what might happen the next day.

'After she gives her keynote speech to all the others, purely _kosher_ of course, Wolfie; after all, Bolt Enterprises is a _legitimate_ pharmaceutical company, is it not? Then, it will be a more select gathering on the 5th floor, where Miss Bolt will unveil to us her plans for the glorious future of THRUSH world domination. Ah, Wolfie, it reminds me so much of what we dreamed about during the war, you and I, eh?' Except, Napoleon thought, it seemed to have a rather heavy emphasis on the female of the species, though, looking at Ernst, he could see that perhaps Miss Bolt did have a point.

Finally, he was able to start making his excuses to leave the table. As he was about to get up, a message was handed to him in an envelope. The message read, 'your interpreter will be available for discussion of your language needs in Room 473'.

'Problem, Wolfie?' Ernst enquired, looking at the envelope.

'No, Ernie, just a note confirming we have the interpreter service if we need it – let's hope we don't get the English idiots translating for us, _old chap!'_ Napoleon replied, emphasising the words in a fake English accent. Ernst let rip with another roaring laugh, as Napoleon wished him good night.

The other three were there when he arrived at the room.

'I thought we weren't meeting like this again' Napoleon said, throwing himself down on the sofa, as Sabi handed him a drink.

'I think we're safe as long as we don't use your room again, especially since Ernie seems to have taken a real shine to you, _Wolfie_ ' Illya said coyly. Napoleon glared at him, noticing that the lenses had been removed.

'Well, I noticed you had to make a fairly rapid exit after your girlfriend turned up' Napoleon replied, 'you were lucky, because your favourite Nazi doctor is also part of the in-house entertainment for the duration of our stay'. Illya breathed out rather heavily, and leaned back on the chair he was perched on.

'Yes, Vaz told me. I am just hoping that they don't get up too close' he replied quietly. 'Anyway, I thought we should meet because tomorrow might be quite difficult. If by chance, any one of us should be 'delayed' returning to base, then perhaps it might be as well if we shared what information we have now so that it can be passed on' he added.

Napoleon stretched on the sofa, then began, explaining to the others what he had learnt about the THRUSH personnel present, and what was to happen at the secret meeting.

'I believe that Miss Bolt will give her presentation in English, so I can legitimately ask for a translator for Ernst and myself. Hopefully', he continued, as Vaz nodded, 'Vaz has fixed it that you two will be the ones, so you'll hear what is being said. The meeting is being held on the 5th floor; as far as I understand, the interpreters are in a separate room, but with visual access. I imagine that one or even both of your favourite ladies, Illya, will be there, so don't give them too many of your winsome smiles, will you?' he said, glancing at the Russian.

'Thank you for your concern, Napoleon' Illya replied archly. 'While you and Ernie were having such an entertaining evening with our Amazonian friends, Vaz and I passed a pleasant few hours with Heidi and Claudia, did we not?' Napoleon pursed his lips at the thought. Illya continued, enjoying Napoleon's annoyance. 'According to the girls, it seems that they are being given 'the chance of a lifetime' in their words, to help unfortunate couples who are not able to have children, while at the same time, earning enough money to be able to pay for their education at University level at wherever they choose to study. As you may have guessed, the girls chosen are the most able and gifted' he added.

'And I presume', Napoleon ventured, 'that the way they are going to help these poor unfortunate infertile couples is . . .'

Sabi finished his sentence.

'To breed children, darling, just like laboratory rats'.

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The presentation was to begin at precisely 11.00am, but only after the specially select few were to be allowed access to the laboratories on the fifth floor. Napoleon grabbed a quick breakfast in the dining hall, before walking out of the building unnoticed, carrying a small canvas bag containing his own clothes, which he concealed in a locker of the men's changing room of the staff gymnasium, conveniently located five minutes up the main drive to the exit. He was only just back in time before the familiar bang at the door announced Ernst.

'We are indeed lucky to be shown round the laboratories' he told the lumbering German in as pompous voice as possible, as they walked towards the West wing lifts.

'Ja, Wolfie, but not just the _usual_ labs the rest of them see, these are the _special_ labs, my boy! '.

The small group assembled at the lift doors, as the twin lifts opened. In each lift, there was a guard waiting, now wearing the jacket and cap that Illya had described, and armed with a small automatic shotgun slung across their chests. As Napoleon entered the lift he saw that the guard had used a plastic card as a reader for entry to the fifth floor, which she had removed from her jacket pocket.

The doors opened onto a large foyer with a glistening black marble floor. There were corridors leading off to the left and right, Napoleon guessing that one way led directly to Bolt's apartment and the other to the laboratories and private rooms where the THRUSH conference would take place. As they emerged from the lift, he noticed Elena Fedorenko standing by the left corridor doors, now wearing the guards uniform, but with a double gold flash on the arm of her jacket. She signalled to them to follow her and pushing open the heavy double doors, they entered the laboratory.

The rooms were arranged one side of a long corridor, the other side being sheer plate class windows looking out over the Bolt estate. Each laboratory had a door into the next one, so one was able to pass right along from one end to the other. There was the usual equipment evident, with a series of technicians performing routine tasks along benches in most of the labs. A more senior looking technician in a white lab coat was guiding them through the processes, which Napoleon attempted to listen to, but soon found completely beyond him. He began to lag behind slightly, positioning himself gradually at the back of the group, and away from the fulsome attentions of his cousin.

In his room, he had read Illya's précis for his benefit, of what he thought might be found in these labs. ' _They must be producing something which will be able to exercise control over individuals, so please listen, Napoleon, and please attempt to bring back some samples if that is humanly possible'_ he heard his partner's voice saying in his head. Napoleon shook his head in an effort to understand, just at the moment that the party had arrived at the last laboratory, which he noticed, needed the swipe card in order to gain entry.

He could just see into another, smaller room from the main lab. The back wall was lined with shelves, upon which were placed a series of cages filled with rats. Below the rats, on a white counter top, a series of clear plastic tubs held a neat, white set of human brains, bobbing in formalin like giant sponges. He dragged his attention back to the main lab, where other, less fortunate rodents lay exposed after dissection. The technician was explaining the rudiments of the experiments performed upon these animals, and what results had been obtained.

'As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, the results of examination of these rat brains here, and these human brains here, has proved that the drug does no lasting damage to brain tissue. We are just carrying out final tests, but our tests on human subjects have shown that the drug can achieve one hundred percent control of the subject by one dose alone. If you don't believe me, then I believe that Miss Bolt is going to demonstrate the effectiveness of the drug at the presentation'.

On the bench by Napoleon's side a technician was drawing up injections from a number of ampoules in a cardboard case. By his side, was a small box labelled 'Dormiben presentation' and the date. Napoleon turned away, then, unbuttoning his jacket slightly, he made a sweeping turn back towards the others, managing to knock the ampoules, and the box onto the floor at the same time.

'Oh I am so sorry, I am very, very clumsy!' he shouted, attempting to help the stricken technician clear up the mess. The rest of the party had turned round to see what was happening, and he could see Ernst pushing his way through, greatly contributing to the general confusion. Napoleon stood up slowly, managing to crush a few more ampoules and syringes under his feet in doing so, and rejoined his cousin at the front of the group, with a couple of drawn syringes and two ampoules safely stowed in his ample jacket pocket. As they left the laboratory, he glanced behind him to see the head technician remonstrating with the unhappy man at the laboratory bench.

'What were you doing, Wolfie?' Ernst whispered fiercely into Napoleon's ear on the way to the lecture room. Napoleon tried to make himself look suitably embarrassed at his behaviour, taking his glasses off, and wiping them with a large handkerchief he pulled out of his trouser pocket.

'I am so sorry, Ernie, this was so embarrassing' he replied, 'thank goodness you are here to look after me'. Ernst beamed back at him.

' _Ja,_ the Baumgartners need to stay together, eh, Wolfie? After all, we are two good looking fellows, are we not?' he added, slapping Napoleon on the back so hard that he almost fell over. He swore that the next mission he and Illya went on, the Russian could play the fall guy, that was for sure.

They were ushered into a small ante-room where coffee was served before the presentation. The door into the lecture room was ajar, and Napoleon caught a glance of the interpreters gathered on an upper gallery at the back of the room. Both Vaz and Illya were easily identifiable, Solo hoped, only to him. The delegates began to file in, taking their seats round a u-shaped arrangement of tables, with a large platform at the front on which a larger table stood, with a screen behind it. Each marked place contained a speaking microphone on the table, and a pair of headphones attached to the underside of the table. Some of the names on the tables were familiar to Napoleon; THRUSH Central members mainly from Europe. He picked up the headphones, put them on and waited.

'I do hope you had a pleasant tour' came the familiar tones of the Russian, speaking in German, presumably for the benefit of any nearby listeners.

' _Sehr gut, danke'_ Napoleon murmured to himself. He turned round and stared at the impassive face of his partner, still strangely unfamiliar with his long wavy brown hair. Solo was immediately aware of a change in Illya's face, and turned back towards the front of the room. Three women had entered the room from another door immediately to the left of the stage. Elena entered first, standing guard by the door. Seconds later, Li-Hua entered, flanked by Dr Engel, carrying a small cardboard box familiar to Napoleon from his exploits at the lab. He didn't need to turn round to know that his partner would be keeping his head lowered for the rest of the presentation.

Li-Hua gazed at the assembled group and after a very cursory welcome, began the presentation. A slide projector in the ceiling appeared, controlled from the desk where she was standing, giving the participants an overview of the proceedings. In essence, there were three parts to the presentation; an explanation of the overall aims, including the long-term plan involving the women on Peronella; a presentation of Dr Engel's psychosurgical research, and then finally, a demonstration of the new drug.

The first part only confirmed all that UNCLE had suspected from its intelligence gathering over the last few months. The ultimate aim was to place women, bred at Peronella, into positions of power and influence throughout the world.

'In twenty five years' time, it will not be unusual to see women at the forefront of business, science and politics and the military forces in the developed and developing world' Li Hua continued. 'It is at precisely this time that THRUSH needs to be ready with the right women; women who can occupy these positions, but whose ultimate allegiance will be to only one organisation. Women who will be only lacking in one area, the pathetic emotions of empathy and love that hold us back from carrying out the necessary actions which will ensure lasting world domination'.

A ripple of pleasure mixed with a little uncertainty, Napoleon felt, spread through the room. It was becoming obvious to him why; the overwhelming majority of delegates were men.

The next part of the presentation was almost entirely made over to the means by which this might be achieved, including a graphic series of slides presented by Dr Engel on her research. After sitting through an almost unwatchable series of slides concerning her work with the Mallorcan children, Napoleon heard his headphones click, the voice sounding hoarse with emotion, so unlike the partner he was used to hearing.

'She has to be stopped'.

Before he could think about what Illya had just said, Li Hua had started speaking again.

'The selection of women for this task has proceeded with efficiency and great success, and we now have an excellent number of recruits from the indicated nationalities required, with the appropriate physical and intellectual background. As far as the males are concerned, we have been very successful with both targeting and obtaining semen through use of the drug which I will be demonstrating to you shortly. However, you will appreciate the difficulties of this task, as it is essential that the men chosen are both leaders in their field, and also extremely fertile. It is necessary therefore, that we obtain further samples, from the following men'.

A further series of slides began to be shown, with details of the men displayed. Napoleon had heard of most of them, and was astonished by the prominence of some of them. He looked away from the screen for a moment at the other delegates, who were listening with varying expressions on their faces, or taking notes. Illya had been making several quiet but acid comments into his headphones; a sudden, fierce oath uttered in Russian into Napoleon's ears alerted him to the screen.

'As you know, one of our ultimate targets in this programme will be the control and ultimate destruction of UNCLE from the inside as it were. It would be ironic, and truly satisfying, would it not, if it was this man's daughter who were one day to both control and destroy that organisation?'.

Napoleon risked glancing up at the interpreter's position. Illya's face was slightly contorted with what Napoleon guessed would be a mixture of anger and fear. Anger at the suggestion that indirectly at least, he would be responsible for UNCLE's destruction; fear, perhaps for his child. Napoleon's mind was racing as the picture of his partner stared out at the delegates. Did she mean to take their baby, or to breed children from him with the women on the island? Or both?

Before anyone had the opportunity to react, Li Hua reached across to the box. Napoleon needed to concentrate on this part of the presentation, and he prayed that Illya would be able to unscramble his emotions enough to focus on it too.

'You may be thinking' Li Hua continued, 'how Mr Kuryakin would be persuaded to give us the necessary 'samples' for our work, bearing in mind that his conditioning is probably sophisticated enough now to prevent him being affected by this'. She held up a syringe, taken from the box on the table. 'I have a special plan for Mr Kuryakin which has already been put into action, and which I am certain will be entirely successful. However, the other 'donors' have already responded very effectively to this' she said, holding up the syringe.

Napoleon could feel the syringe and ampoules in his pocket. He was very aware of the necessity to deliver them back to UNCLE, but not before he had discovered what their role was to be in all this. The explanation was simple. One injection caused the recipient to be almost immediately receptive to conditioning by the first person speaking to them. The control of that person over the recipient was total and permanent, and could be revived at will, simply by using the same short command to listen. This could be done in person, or using an instrument like a telephone, or even a tape. Thus, long and complicated brain-washing procedures could be simply dispensed with. The subject would have no memory of even having met the control, and could be kept in control indefinitely.

'We have used this drug successfully to collect samples from those males already mentioned, and of course, the beauty of it is that we can just return and take some more whenever we like, with no obvious side effects. The drug is metabolised by the body within twenty-four hours, so unless someone suspects something and acts extremely quickly, there will be no sign of it in the bloodstream whatsoever'.

Napoleon glanced quickly up towards Illya. Something was terribly wrong. He hoped that no-one else had noticed how strained he looked. Napoleon cast about in his memory for what could be the matter, more than all the dreadful things they had witnessed in the last half hour. There was something that the Russian agent had wanted to tell him when they were in England, but somehow they had never managed to be together long enough. As he turned back, he noticed Li Hua staring at him, and an uncomfortable silence filling the room.

She had one of the syringes in her hand, and had come down the steps at the side of the platform, whispering something to Elena as she walked past her. The Ukrainian had in turn whispered into her radio, and, imperceptibly, two other guards appeared at the doors leading out of the room.

'Some of you I can see, are sceptical about the effects of Dormiben, and I can appreciate that. After all, a lot is riding on it' she said, with a thin, rather cruel smile. 'So I thought I would give you a little demonstration of its powers'. She started to walk up the room, behind the desks of the row of delegates Napoleon was sitting in. She reached the table where Ernst was sitting.

'It was remarkable how you and your cousin were re-united after so long, was it not Mr Baumgartner?' she said to Ernst, who nodded almost manically back, his face red with heat and sweat. 'Yes, I thought so too. So remarkable, that I made some enquiries into your cousin's whereabouts in the last few years'. She leaned over menacingly behind Ernst, her lips inches from his ear. 'Do you know what I found? I found, Mr Baumgartner, that your cousin Wolfgang died five years ago'. With a fluid movement of her other hand, she plunged the syringe into his neck, pulling it out, and throwing it down on the floor almost immediately.

Napoleon felt the gun stuffed inside his jacket, but the presence of three guards made that choice a rather poor one, unless he could grab a hostage. He glanced at the guards by the door again; they were closer together now, one whispering to the other. Then the door to the interpreter's gallery opened slowly, and another guard took her post, just behind Illya and Vaz. Sabi stared at Napoleon, then looked down.

A gun had been placed on the table in front of Ernst. There was almost palpable silence in the room.

'Listen to me Ernst'. Napoleon saw the reaction of the German to the voice. His head, which had been slumped forward, jerked back and his body stiffened in the chair, as if he had sat to attention. 'Pick up the gun and kill Wolfgang. Kill your cousin, Ernst' Li Hua was saying in a calm, cold voice. Almost immediately, with little hesitation, Ernst rose to his feet and took the gun off the table.

Napoleon was aware of something small and black flying through the air and landing on his table at the same time as a tremendous blast filled the room with a grey smoky gas. He lunged forward and picked up the mask, ramming it on his head and running towards the door, where the two guards were coughing and choking, completely blinded by the smoke. A siren was screaming, guards running towards the room. He wondered why they were all ignoring him, until he realised that Sabi was standing behind him, and had grabbed his arm.

Still holding his arm, Sabi dragged him towards the lift. With her card, she swiped the card reader. The doors opened.

'Find a safe place in the grounds, and the other two will meet you there' she whispered fiercely. It was only as the lift plunged to the ground floor did he think how they would possibly know where the safe place might be.

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'Good old Sabi' Vaz whispered, as they made their way, coughing and spluttering, out of the interpreter's room and towards the lifts.

'Yes, but I am slightly worried that someone noticed me throwing that mask' Illya murmured. 'Still, let's hope we can look sufficiently like victims to be able to walk out without further incident. Remember, set your communicator on Channel P and you will pick up Napoleon's homing signal that he doesn't know he's got. Wait for me for ten minutes when you find him, otherwise just get out as soon as possible, and I'll meet you both at the airport. I understand our bags will be waiting for us. Remember, Vaz, it's essential that you get Napoleon's little gift back home'. Vaz nodded and headed for the right hand lift, Illya joining the queue for the other one.

The delegates were being herded out of the room by the guards, some of them joining the interpreters' queue. A guard suddenly appeared out of the lecture room and addressed the remaining few that were waiting.

'Miss Bolt says that you can use the small lift in the lecture room. It's perfectly safe in there now'. A small group broke away, including Illya, who walked slowly behind them, with his face partly concealed by a large handkerchief into which he coughed from time to time. He looked round carefully as they walked through the room. The gas had dissipated fairly rapidly, as Sabi had said it would, and he could see that the door at the side of the platform led to a small lobby with a lift in it. There were about six of them waiting when the lift arrived, the other five cramming in, leaving Illya standing there alone.

'Don't worry, I'll just wait if you send it back up' he said, partly into the handkerchief. It was taking a little too long for his liking to get out of the building, and he hoped that Vaz wouldn't hang around if he was late. The lift doors closed, and he heard the lift descend, then stop on the ground floor. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the lift begin to ascend again. Illya stuffed the handkerchief in his trouser pocket and looked at his watch, wondering where Napoleon might have picked to wait. Without looking, hearing the doors opening, he stepped in and found himself staring into the face of Elena Federenko, standing opposite him. Before he could jump back, the lift doors had closed, and she had slammed the handle down to stop the lift.

For a frozen moment, they looked steadily at each other. She didn't have her cap on for some reason, but he noticed her gun stuck into a holster on a belt round her waist. Before he could recover, she had clamped her hands on his shoulders, swung him round, and shoved him into the corner of the lift, temporarily winding him with the force of the shove sideways. He heard an ominous crack in the region of his ribs as he felt his body hit the wall.

. She moved up rapidly, not allowing him any time to force her back or squeeze past.

'Valentin. Oh, but of course, that's not your name, is it, Illya Nikovetch? And you are certainly not the man you were, are you now?' she said, pinning him against the wall with her arm so tightly, that he could hardly breathe. She was so strong, she was able to hold him there while she continued to talk. 'I thought I knew you, despite all this', she spat, getting hold of his hair with her free hand. 'You have a body one remembers, or at least, I would have liked to have remembered it, if you had only cooperated a little more'. Her face was now very close to his; she forced his head against the wall, kissing him roughly, while, alarmingly, her free hand was now undoing his belt and pulling down the zip of his trousers. She had got her hand inside, and he could feel her groping amongst his pubic hair when he decided he had had enough of her.

'If you don't mind', he gasped, 'there's only one person whom I allow to do that, and it's not you'.

Illya bent his head and butted her straight in the face as hard as he could, hearing the crack as the back of her skull hit the wall behind her. She let out a scream which reverberated round the lift, and staggered, but remarkably kept on her feet. He tried to get round her to pull back the lift lever, but as he reached out, Elena brought down the hilt of her gun on his forearm, with the sickening sound of bone breaking. Illya grunted with pain, but before she could bring up the gun again, he kicked her arm, the gun flying across the floor, ricocheting from side to side of the lift. She pulled him down on his broken arm, and they fell onto the floor together, scrabbling for the gun. Their hands locked onto it, pulling it from one to the other in a desperate struggle for control of the weapon. Illya felt her face up close to his again, her breath all over him. Ignoring the screaming pain of his arm, he brought up his legs and kneed her in the abdomen. With a groan, she doubled up, giving him control of the gun. He brought it down on her head and she lay still.

He leaned back against the side of the lift and felt his body for injuries. His back was sore, and his ribs hurt when he breathed. His arm was now throbbing, and almost useless. Gritting his teeth, he stuck the gun in his jacket and sent the lift down to the first floor, hoping that there were some stairs from there. The lift opened to a small foyer as on the other floors. Illya slowly walked out of the lift, staggering a little, his breath catching with the pain. He pressed the button to send Elena back up to the fourth floor, where he hoped she might not be discovered immediately. Very carefully, he walked along a corridor, and then down the main stairs to the foyer.

He had little idea of his appearance, but luckily, there were a number of casualties from the gas explosion, as it was being called, to enable him to blend in. He could feel his eye closing and the pain in his arm getting gradually worse. Keeping his head down, he walked as slowly as he could out of the front door and down the steps. After he had staggered a few more yards, in the cover of the wooded area, Illya sunk back against a tree and pulled out his communicator. Channel P gave an immediate strong signal coming from the direction of the gym. Willing his aching body to move, he forced himself to walk as fast as he could down the road.

Xxxxxxxxx

They were preparing to leave as Illya staggered into the men's locker room, locating the other two agents with his good eye.

'What army did you run into?' Vaz exclaimed, grabbing Illya's bad arm and receiving a torrent of Russian abuse in return. Illya sank gratefully down on the bench, glancing at Napoleon, who had managed to yank off most of the latex and change into the clothes he had stashed.

'I am ashamed I have to confess that I 'ran into' as you so accurately put it, the one woman army known as Elena Fedorenko' Illya replied, attempting to remove the now superfluous contact lenses from his eyes. He forced himself upright in time to hear the sound of a vehicle approaching and stopping at the side of the building .

'If that is what I think it is, please, go now' Illya said. 'I cannot go at your pace and I will slow you down. Leave me here'.

'That is very noble of you darling, but I think you deserve better'. Sabi ran forward and took him gently by his good arm, the others following on behind. A black Bolt van was parked just at the side of the gym, with the back doors already slightly opened. Napoleon and Vaz helped Illya into the back, then threw themselves in beside him, covering them all with the blankets that had been provided, and dragging the cardboard cases in the back round them. Sabi drove off, trying not to jar the vehicle too much.

At the gates they drew to a halt, and they could hear a muffled conversation between Sabi and the guard. Napoleon could hear the ragged breathing of his partner lying next to him. He dragged his communicator out of his pocket and adjusted it to give him a thin beam of light onto the Russian's face. It was not a happy sight. Despite the fact that the temperature outside was quite low, and a storm was brewing, Kuryakin looked sweaty, and deathly pale beneath the suntan. His eyes were fluttering between open and shut, and he was beginning to gasp with the effort of breathing. Napoleon wondered how much longer Sabi would take.

'He doesn't look that chipper does he, old boy?' Vaz's voice came out of the shadows. 'The old girl has laid on the works at the airport, though' he added, trying to sound more positive than he felt.

'I presume you mean, that, there is an UNCLE jet with medical facilities on board? Napoleon hissed, not meaning to sound as stressed as he was beginning to feel as each long minute passed. As he turned back to glance at Illya, he heard the front door of the van slam, and the van started up again. Almost instantly, a small door was slid back, and the back of Sabi's head could be seen.

'Sorry darlings, it took rather longer than I'd hoped. The guard wanted to know all about what had gone on, so I had to explain how these terrible men had caused a dreadful explosion at the conference' she shouted above the noise of the van.

They drove rapidly along the road towards the autobahn, Napoleon keeping watch on the deteriorating state of his partner. He was now visibly struggling for breath, and the pulse in his broken arm was faint. His left eye had closed up almost completely, and looked dark and puffy. Napoleon dreaded to think of the reception they would get at home when they returned to New York.

The van began to slow down and draw to a halt. Napoleon looked through the little hatch and saw another car waiting in the lay-by in front of them. Sabi had jumped out of the van, and was pulling open the back doors and moving the boxes out of the way.

'I have to leave you here, I'm afraid' she said, 'but Heinz and Ingo here will take you to the airport and make sure you are not interfered with. I have to make sure that my cover is not blown, and they will suspect if I am out for too long'. As Napoleon heaved himself out of the back of the van, she grabbed him and pulled him aside.

'It wasn't just bad luck that betrayed you, Napoleon. Someone in UNCLE is acting as an informant. They don't know about me, that I'm almost certain of. I don't think they knew about Illya and Vaz, but of course they will now because of what happened between him and that Ukrainian. But they knew about you, darling. It's a good job I took a few precautions, eh?'.

She ran round to check that the two Germans were managing to transfer Illya to the car. Napoleon smiled when he saw who this particular Ingo was.

'Oh he comes on some of these jobs' Sabi was saying, as the giant fitness coach got into the back of the van, and lifted Illya out, as if he weighed no more than a child. Illya stirred, then opened his eyes.

'I can't breathe' he gasped. Ingo continued to hold him gently, his face an astonishing mixture of pity and concern. He shouted to the other German, then looked back at the others as he ran towards the car with the Russian.

'Hurry, boys, Ingo will not be happy if you make his boy any worse by dawdling' Sabi said. Vaz and Napoleon stared at each other, then immediately ran towards the car, Napoleon taking the front seat, and Vaz jumping in next to the unlikely pair in the back. Heinz accelerated off towards the autobahn, leaving Sabi standing by the van, a faint black shape in the distance.

The car was a large Mercedes estate, with what seemed like a vast back seat and storage area beyond, which Napoleon noticed, contained some medical equipment, including a small oxygen cylinder. Ingo had unfurled the mask and placed it round Illya's face, adjusting the controls of the cylinder as they sped along the road. In the back, Vaz managed to pull Illya's legs over his knees to make him more comfortable; the Russian's suit jacket was pulled open, revealing his trousers, which Vaz noticed had been unzipped, with the belt unbuckled. His eyes narrowed at the sight.

'Look at that, Napoleon. Either he was cut short at a very inconvenient time, or the lovely lady had a go at him in a very private place' he observed. Napoleon sighed.

'Well, just don't mention it when Therese is around, there's a good fellow' he replied. Without comment, Ingo reached across, pulled up the zip and buckled the belt.

Napoleon was extremely relieved to see the signs to the airport at Munich appearing on the autobahn. Illya's breathing was now extremely laboured, his hold on consciousness very tenuous. The car drove past the main entrance and through gates leading to a smaller runway. The UNCLE jet had just finished refuelling, and Napoleon could see that the steps were down, ready to receive them, with a stretcher on a trolley at the bottom. The 'old lady' as Vaz so described her, had certainly thought of everything.

Two figures emerged from the inside of the aeroplane, their uniforms unmistakeably medical. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Napoleon could not help smiling at the sight. He leaned over to the back seat, as near Illya as he could.

'Guess what, comrade' he murmured into his ear, 'your two favourite nurses are waiting just for you'. He was sure that a groan issued from the lips of the Russian, his eyes twitching imperceptibly.

The storm that had threatened all through the day finally decided to erupt as they drew up beside the plane. With a barely concealed oath, Ingo pushed away the proffered trolley, and strode towards the plane steps with Illya. The rain lashed at them all ferociously, soaking them in a matter of seconds. For a man of his size Ingo seemed incredibly light on his feet however, and he ran up the steps to the waiting arms of Helga and Ingrid. Inside the plane, the ever efficient Sabi had already communicated the facts of Illya's condition to the medical staff; Napoleon could see Werner Hausmann, one of the UNCLE Berlin office's doctors, scrubbing up at the side of the bed at the far end of the jet.

' _Wass ist das_?' Helga said, as they slid a dripping Illya onto the bed. Napoleon smiled. The disguise, which had really worked so well for the Russian, had finally succumbed to the weather. A trail of brown water covered the floor of the jet and the part of the sheet where Illya's head lay.

'I think you'll find that he could use a shampoo when you've finished sorting out his lung' he ventured, smiling at the two nurses, who were anxiously dabbing at Illya's hair, now a strange mixture of blond and brown. As the engines of the jet began to rev up, Ingo leaned forward over Illya, kissed his forehead, and with a nod to the other agents, left the plane, running across to the Mercedes as the steps closed behind him. Napoleon looked across at Vaz.

'What was all that about?' Vaz said. 'Does he think Kuryakin's his long lost son or something?'

' Well, you see, it just goes to show, even the hardest nuts have a soft, gooey centre all along' Napoleon replied, leaning back into his seat.

CHAPTER 7

Napoleon dug Vaz in the ribs to wake him up, as their breakfast was being served. He rolled out of his seat to stretch his by now stiff legs, thinking he should try to clean up before the plane reached New York.

After the plane had taken off, Napoleon had hovered about outside the medical area for a while, as the medical staff put in a drain to treat Illya's collapsed lung, but there was little he could do without getting in the way of the bustling German nurses, and Kuryakin had been sedated, so was unable to tell him anything meaningful about what had happened to him, or, more interestingly perhaps, what had made him look so drawn during the presentation; he hoped that by the morning, Illya would look better than he had done the evening before.

Napoleon drew back the curtain and entered the medical area of the plane. Dr Hausmann and another nurse had obviously taken the night shift, and were now resting on seats further up the compartment. The two 'valkyries' as Illya had called them, had started their usual morning routine with their favourite victim. He had been stripped of his clothes and was now wearing the hospital robe he despised. The broken arm had been set and now sported a large cast, and the other arm had a drip attached, rendering him almost helpless to defend himself against the ministrations of the two German nurses. They had obviously taken Napoleon's suggestion of the previous evening to heart. The bed was laid flat, the Russian's head left dangling at the end. Ingrid held a large basin underneath the flowing hair, whilst Helga enthusiastically scrubbed at it, pouring a large jug of water over the helpless head to complete the process.

They looked up as Napoleon entered and sauntered round the other side of the bed, grinning.

'Is that you, Napoleon?', came the breathless voice of his partner, 'please would you tell these so called nurses to release me before I am drowned'. The two women, totally unperturbed by any protests, proceeded to wrap Illya's hair in a towel, rubbing his head vigorously until he shouted, 'enough! Please, ladies. I am most grateful, but ', he heaved, 'I need to speak to Napoleon. Thank you'.

'O.K. but we will be back to finish. Don't think you are getting away with anything' Helga scolded, pulling the bed head up to a sitting position as she went.

Illya laid his head back against the bed and closed his eyes for a moment. The bruise on his eye was developing nicely, Napoleon thought, but the swelling seemed less, and his overall colour was vastly improved. He looked down at the bottle attached to the drain, noticing that the bloody liquid draining from it last night seemed to have lessened. Illya turned his head towards his partner, the former worried look seeming to have returned to mar his otherwise good physical progress.

'Napoleon, did you manage to pick up anything when you were doing the tour of the laboratories?' he asked, his gaze on his partner intent.

'Well, as a matter of fact, I did come away with a souvenir of my stay at Chateau Bolt' Napoleon replied, 'It's in the fridge over there' he said, indicating with his head towards the drugs fridge behind the bed.

'I presume by that you mean the drug we were entertained with so well at the presentation', Illya continued. He closed his eyes slightly again, his Slavic features somehow accentuated by the wrapping of the towel round his head. 'Napoleon, there is something I need to tell you about Therese, that may be connected with that drug, and if what I suspect is true, will have serious implications for her and for the outcome of this mission' he said quietly.

Napoleon frowned, but said nothing, allowing him to continue when he was ready. Illya related to him the incident concerning Therese and the injection that had occurred on their honeymoon. 'She denied absolutely that she had met anyone, friend or stranger, and she couldn't account for the injection mark' he continued. 'I'm taking it for granted, of course, that she is not lying to me. When Miss Bolt demonstrated the effects of that drug so graphically yesterday, I am afraid that these two incidents started to coalesce in my mind. What I am slightly less clear about is, has Miss Bolt got designs on our baby, or does she have some connection to Therese herself in some way? Or, is it all just some plan to get hold of me? The only thing I can think about is that the Balearic islands must be the link'.

'What do you want me to do?' Napoleon asked him simply.

'I managed to get her to a clinic when I found out, and they took some blood samples, the results from which, they should have sent back to Peter in New York. As Miss Bolt said, the drug is metabolised in the body after a day, so hopefully, there should be something there we can compare to your sample. You will need to have a meeting with Mr Waverly then to decide what to do. It's hard for me to be entirely objective about this, as you can imagine, but I will do everything I can to protect her if she has been compromised by this drug', he looked away for a moment, then turned back, his eyes a little damp, Napoleon thought. 'I mean, protect _them_ ' Illya murmured. He put his head back on the bed. The giving of the message seemed to have exhausted him; his pallor had become greyer somehow, despite the remains of the tan on his face.

'O.K. Just concentrate on getting back on your feet then, otherwise you are not going to be protecting squat. They will almost certainly have a bed reserved for you in your favourite suite at HQ, so I'll come and fill you in as soon as I can' Napoleon replied. 'I'll also try to offset some of the fallout from the girls back home, if you take my drift' he said, trying to lighten the somewhat sombre mood there existed in the cabin now.

'Thank you Napoleon. Yes, I will almost certainly get it in the neck as the English say, for coming back in this state' Illya said, a faint smile warming up his features. 'At least the girls have hopefully restored my former good looks' he added, starting to pull the towel off his head. Napoleon worked hard not to grin at what he saw emerging, but it was too late, and the acutely observant Russian had noticed.

'What is wrong?' he asked, looking at the towel as if that would tell him.

'Well, your Nordic colour has returned alright, but . .., well, um, ' As he was about to try and finish his sentence diplomatically, Helga and Ingrid burst into the cabin, followed by Vaz, wiping the crumbs off his suit.

'Oh, you know Mizzi said that it might last longer; after all, it's very difficult to make straight hair wave, so she told us she'd used something a bit stronger' Helga said, standing one side of the bed talking to Ingrid as if the other occupants were invisible.

' _Ja_ , but it's so lovely! And so natural! He's just like that Opera star we saw in the Ring Cycle last week singing Tristan – so manly!' Ingrid replied, combing Illya's hair back from his face. Illya's face was so stricken, Napoleon wanted to burst out laughing.

'Since I am completely unable to use my arms, would somebody please do me the honour of passing me a mirror?' he murmured, now glaring at the two nurses, who as usual were totally unaware of the expression on his face, or chose not to be. Helga leaned behind her, and fished in a drawer. She pulled out a small mirror and held it in front of him. There was a silence in the room which even the nurses picked up on.

'I think I look more like that man advertising men's cologne that we saw on your new television recently, do you remember, Napoleon?'

'Ah yes; you mean 'Apollo – heaven scent'?'

'That's the one' Illya replied, sinking back onto the bed and closing his eyes. Napoleon shook his head. Unpredictable; the Russian took the ticket for it.

xxxxxxxxx

'Open Channel D. Ah, hi there Martine, _ca va_?

' _Ca va bien_ , Napoleon! What can I do for you, _mon cheri_? Martine was very cute, but he musn't get too carried away. 'Can you put me through to Miss McCaffery in Legal, please?'. This was one big advantage of having a relationship with someone in UNCLE, he thought. Easy communication; not that communication was always easy with Josefina. Especially after she took a look at his hair.

'She's not in her _department, a ce moment,_ Napoleon; I'll put you through to the shooting range'. Napoleon screwed up his face in puzzlement. What was she doing there? After a few clicks, the familiar sexy voice came back to him.

'Hiya. Where are you, and is Goldilocks with you, because she'll want to know, which is why I presume you're laying the way, isn't it treasure?' she said. Napoleon inwardly squirmed; the woman must have second sight.

'Um, the answer to your questions are, yes, both of us are here, and will be with you fairly shortly. Everything is just fine, except that Illya has a few souvenirs from the trip which he may need to share with the fine folks in Medical for a few days, but nothing to shout about, so don't go sounding alarm bells in the direction of the Village, OK?

'Well, that's about as clear as mud; any other little surprises in store for us girls? Jo asked. Napoleon could hear the noise of discharging guns in the background.

'Well, er, yes, but before I tell you, can you just tell _me_ what you are doing at the moment?' he replied, pursing his lips. There was a momentary silence.

'I volunteered to do a gun course, or whatever it's called down here. Actually, the guy here says I'm quite a shot'.

'I can believe it' Napoleon murmured. 'Now, just so you won't go ape, we had to slightly alter our appearance for the job; let's say that I will look fine by the time of the wedding, if that's what you're worried about, and Illya, well, all I can say is, that he's going to make a lot of the girls in the office very jealous'.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Leaving Illya in the kind, but firm hands of Marge and Joan, the UNCLE New York equivalent of Ingrid and Helga, Napoleon walked down the corridor to Peter McDonald's office. Peter was sitting at his desk writing, looking every bit like the kind of family doctor Napoleon remembered from his childhood. On the desk, a number of family photos looked out at Napoleon; Peter's grown up children in Scotland, Napoleon presumed, and, in a larger frame, a wedding photograph of himself and Illya's mother, Marina. Napoleon picked it up and studied it, noticing the same, rather shy expression in her face, as he had seen in the Kuryakin-McCaffery wedding photographs.

'She's a wonderful woman; I've never been this happy for a very long time' Peter said.

'Yes', Napoleon replied, putting down the photo, 'they're a good pair, those two'.

'Who are a good pair?' Marina had come in behind him, and had the unmistakeable Kuryakin arched expression on her face. Her husband jumped up, beaming, and embraced her, seemingly oblivious of Solo standing there.

'Hello Napoleon' she said. 'That isn't by chance my son I've just seen through the window of Room 6, or do we have any more Kuryakins around?'

'Well, not until April, I guess' Napoleon answered smoothly. 'Yes, he's not too badly injured, but I think you know that already' he said. There was no point in lying to her, ever.

'I thought so. I could see he was giving them a difficult time in there, but they looked as if they could handle him, so I'll go back now and make sure he's being a good boy' she replied, smiling. 'I'm sure you've not come up here just to pay Peter a social call'. She kissed Napoleon's cheek and left the room. Napoleon turned back and sat in the chair facing Peter's desk, as Peter walked back.

'I have come on business, I'm afraid Peter. Did you by chance get some results from Mallorca about Tess?'. Peter got up and pulled open a filing cabinet behind him on the back wall of the office. In the larger file, there were two manilla folders, one fat, the other thinner. He pulled open the thinner of the two, with Therese's name clearly written at the top corner.

'Yes, here it is. I was waiting until Illya got back to discuss the results, but I presume due to his current medical condition, he's asked you to sub for him?' He said, looking over his glasses.

'That's right.' Napoleon outlined what Illya had told him on the journey back. Peter frowned at the story.

'He was right to take her so promptly to that clinic. The results have totally mystified our chemists here; we've never seen anything like this drug before. It will be very interesting to see if your drug matches the one found in Therese's body. Of course, what we do about it, if that's the case, is another matter' he said seriously, looking at the figures on the sheet of paper in front of him. 'I would imagine, after what you've told me, that it is of the most utmost urgency that we find some sort of antidote, if that is possible, to this drug, otherwise your Miss Bolt has a very worrying hold over young Therese, Mr Solo' Peter ended, putting the report down with a thud. 'I'll be in touch as soon as the pharmacology report comes through. Anyway', he said, looking at the contents of the file, 'the pregnancy looks to be doing well; they should have a lovely bouncing wee baby by the spring'. Napoleon sighed. As long as they could keep Li Hua Bolt at bay, that was.

Xxxxxxxx

'Illya. Illyusha?' Marina had come in to find that her son had capitulated to the combined forces of Margo and Joan, having been threatened with sedation if he attempted anything they hadn't approved of.

'Mama. Yes, please don't say anything about my hair, because you will be the thirtieth person to remark on it since I arrived here. Like it or hate it, it will be gone, I am sure, very soon'.

'Nothing about this place, or what you do for it, surprises me any more, Illyusha' Marina replied, smiling and kissing both cheeks in the European fashion. She looked him up and down, glancing at the charts on his bed. 'The pneumothorax seems to be resolving; are you breathing more easily now?'

'Yes, thank you. I feel fine now, just a little bruised, as you can see. Perhaps I can get . . . ah, don't be upset; what's so funny?'

Therese had walked into the room while they were talking. As she walked down the corridor, she had suddenly felt a twinge of panic rising in her throat. The memory of the incident involving Carole, of Kat's death in particular, had caught at her throat, and made her hesitate before the doors of the department. Jo had warned her, before she had come up, that he had a number of injuries; she hoped that she never became complacent about them. Her sister had also hinted that he might still be 'a little different' and her mind was racing about what that particular phrase might mean. The sight that met her as she opened the door was entirely unexpected, and after frowning at the drip and plaster cast, she began to laugh. Therese embraced Marina, and then fell upon her husband, holding his head and kissing him; revelling in his proximity, his closeness to her. Then she started to laugh again.

'What's all this then?' Therese said, running her hands through his hair. 'Trying to take after Fernando?'.

'For the last time, _Teresita_ , and before I think this must be a conspiracy of Napoleon's making. . .'

'Ah, how very Russian of you, _amado_ , a conspiracy eh?' she interrupted him. She sat down on the bed, shifting his head to lie on her shoulder, and glancing across at Marina knowingly. With one of her hands, she made a scissors action across his head. Marina began to laugh.

'What are you doing? Ah; very funny' Illya replied, looking up at her. He sighed. 'No doubt Mr Waverly will be here soon to visit with exactly the same thought in his mind, only I somehow think it will end in my visiting somewhere I do not want to go' he said, glumly. Therese stroked his hair, moving her lips to his ear.

'Frankie will have designs on you' she whispered, smiling at Marina, 'she's very creative, as you know'. He glared a little at her, wanting so much to take her in his arms that it hurt.

'Frankie can have her wish, but I don't want creative. 'Creative' got me this' he said, indicating the long wavy tresses. So, I'll settle for un-creative, do you understand? Un-creative'.

Xxxxxxx

The familiar circular table in Waverly's office was littered with documents, a few maps, and some familiar photographs of buildings and people connected with the Bolt case. Napoleon could see himself reflected in the glass of a picture hanging on the opposite wall, and he cringed slightly at his appearance. Jo had spent the evening calling him 'G.I. Joe' and saluting him, until he had taken her in the bedroom to demonstrate what he called a little 'military tactics from G.I. Joe', after which she'd been more reasonable.

In the absence of Illya, Napoleon was surprised to see only himself and Vaz at the table, together with Peter, until he remembered the conversation he had had with Sabi, which he had conveyed to Waverly when they had arrived. He guessed that the relatively small number present was a security measure to prevent any more incidents like the one at the presentation.

Waverly came through a private door, and sat down, swinging the table round to give them access to the documents. He looked more serious somehow than normal, if that was possible, Napoleon thought. Waverly twisted round and pressed the button revealing the screen which was already displaying the map of Peronella.

'Gentlemen. I want to set down how we will proceed in what I consider must be the end game to all this . . . business' he said, indicating the papers with his pipe. There are a number of very important issues at stake here, and some very innocent people whose lives could be lost if we act with haste or carelessness. Perhaps, Mr Solo, you could begin with a report of the Bolt Germany fiasco, but before you do, I would just like to say that from now on, this mission will be only for our ears only, and, of course' he added, 'Mr Kuryakin's'. Miss Klose was right to alert us to the almost certain fact that there is a THRUSH mole again working in our midst. Therefore, any communications must be via Channel PX which will relay directly to this office. If you need to involve any other person here, you must obtain my permission beforehand, understood?'. They all nodded, glancing at each other warily.

'When we have finished, I would be grateful if you could convey our decisions to Mr Kuryakin, Mr Solo' Waverly said, looking at Solo. 'By the way, I don't know what you chaps do down in Section 12,' Waverly muttered, 'but could you tell Mr Kuryakin that he needs to conform to normal office appearance when he returns to work, understood?'. Napoleon nodded.

'Yes, sir, I'll tell him' he replied. For once, he thought, there wouldn't be a problem with that.

'Now, let's get on with it, shall we, we haven't got all day if we're to help these people' Waverly commanded.

xxxxxxxxx

'So what exactly has been decided, Napoleon?'

Napoleon sat forward on the rather hard armchair provided by Joan for their meeting. The Russian looked a lot better, he thought, and with returning health, came returning awkwardness, he observed, mirrored on the face of Joan and Bettina, the other nurse, who was giving Napoleon the cold shoulder since she'd found out that he was getting married at Christmas.

Kuryakin had been in Medical long enough now for the lung to be declared satisfactory, so Napoleon had stood outside the room while the drain had been removed, holding the door slightly open with his foot to be amused by the usual hard time Illya was giving the nurses. However, he was now in a better temper, as they had told him he could leave, and Therese was expected shortly to collect him.

'Thank goodness' Joan said. 'I'm just glad I'm not on maternity anywhere in this town when that baby arrives – expect a strike amongst nursing staff, I tell you'.

He had already managed to change into some albeit casual clothes that had been in his case, and which Marge had bravely agreed to help him with. Napoleon still smiled faintly at the hair, making him look faintly cherubic, he thought, as he sat on the bed cross legged, looking at the papers Napoleon had given him with his one functioning hand.

'There are two big issues, Illya' Napoleon began. 'One, the problem of the drug and Tess. Two, the problem of what is going on at Peronella, and how we can stop it. As far as Number Two is concerned, Waverly feels that we cannot resort to a tactic like widespread destruction of the island; first, there would be a massive reaction from the Spanish Government, and secondly, and more important, there are a lot of young, innocent lives which could be lost if we do'. Illya nodded, looking down at him from the bed.

'I can guess that he wants to leave Sabi there a bit longer, to see what is going on, but also to find out just what they think they know about what we know' he replied, putting down the paper he was holding.

'Precisely. When I spoke to Sabi, she was sure about the mole, which we're acting on, but she also seemed to think that they hadn't known about you before your little battle with the Ukrainian heavyweight champion, and more important, they don't know we've got some samples of their little wonder drug' Napoleon replied.

'That is crucial, Napoleon. If they think we don't know what the drug is, then that will make it slightly easier to defend Tess. From this' he said, waving the results of the drug analysis, 'it looks very clearly as if they are one and the same drug, and that it was probably Miss Bolt who shared a coffee with her on that morning'.

'and something not quite so delicious' Napoleon added.

'Indeed'. Illya leaned back slightly on the bed, supporting himself with his cast. 'What I still don't understand is, what is her connection with Tess? What does she want? She obviously wants 'a sample' ' he said, raising his eyes, 'from me, and the hint was that she had a way of getting me there; so I presume that is through Tess. But I can't help but think there is more to it than that'. He sighed. Napoleon could almost see his brain trying to analyse the data. Sometimes, he was too clever for his own good, Napoleon decided.

They sat in silence for a few minutes thinking about what had been said. Napoleon broke the silence.

'Illya, you said that the link has to be the Balearics, probably in the past when they were both there, say one summer?' Illya nodded. 'Now, Therese cannot help us figure this out, but who else could? What I mean is, the chances are that if they met before, then it had to be on Peronella. From what we know about Bolt, she hardly left the island, until she went to University. Now, Fernando knew all about Peronella, because he had been there before, but it's unlikely he would have gone diving with big sister, would he? He was too young. But who else would? I don't think it would be Jo, because she told me she hates diving; she's only interested in the beach and a nice tan'

'Napoleon, please try to keep your mind on the subject, and not go off into your fantasy world – that will be for your honeymoon' Illya interrupted.

'What? Er, yes. Right, so not Fernando, not Jo, but . .'

'Of course, Gabi' Illya replied. 'She and Gabi went swimming and diving together, she told me, and I had forgotten'. He pursed his lips together, inwardly cursing his forgetfulness.

'Don't be hard on yourself' Napoleon said gently. 'However, it might be a good idea if you were to pay one of your visits to your brother in law before long, eh tovarisch?'. Illya nodded. 'I presume you haven't discussed this with Tess yet, so I'd wait until you've spoken to Gabi then perhaps we can decide what we're going to do in the light of that'.

The door opening alerted them both to Therese's presence in the department. Napoleon leapt up and moved out of the way for her to put a case she was carrying on the bed. He could see that the pregnancy was just beginning to show in the slight bump apparent under her shift dress, which was black, covering an amazing black and white geometric jumper, and showing her slender legs off well, even though she was wearing black tights as well .

'I hope you're not looking at my wife's legs, even though you don't have the pleasure, as I do, of seeing them very often' Illya said, smiling at her appearance.

'Would I?' Napoleon replied. 'Oh, by the way, just two things before I go'. They both looked his way expectantly, as Therese helped her husband off the bed and onto the chair while she looked round for his shoes.

'One, thought you'd like to know, comrade, that the little something our German colleague attached to my person . . ah, you remember it . . . well I, or rather Jo found it the other night. If you manage to contact Sabi before I do, please tell her that has cost me dear in the placating of future wife stakes'.

'And two, as if I couldn't guess' began Illya, pursing his lips.

'Ah yes, I think you know what's coming. A message from Mr Waverly. He says . . .let me put it this way, you're to lose the Greek god look . . permanently. Kapich?

xxxxxxxxx

Fernando McCaffery decided that he liked New York very much. Very much indeed. He wandered back along the streets filled with tired, but purposeful people fighting their way home for the evening. He liked the scale of this part of Manhattan; its vitality and community spirit, its lack of thrusting business types that he'd noticed further down in the business and financial districts towards Battery Park. His brother and sisters had made him welcome each in their own ways, glad to see him moving towards some purpose in his life, although he knew Tess was worried about his career choice. But he was used to that; she'd always looked out for him from when they were children, he remembered, taking on boys who had teased him for stupid things, like his curly hair, until he was able to deal with them himself.

He turned the corner into Grove St to see a girl with black hair and great legs swinging along from the other direction. He'd not really bothered with girls in the last few months in any serious way; he'd been out with a few Mallorcans, but they were closely guarded by their fathers, and nothing much had come of it. But she looked interesting; Italian, he guessed, with that hair and complexion. He liked her style – the big hoop earrings, the mini-skirt and wide hipster belt slung across the narrow hips. Fernando increased his pace as he got nearer, wondering if he could somehow accost her without looking too keen. As he reached the steps of Tess's house, she turned and ran up them towards the door, leaving him staring at the bottom. With a couple of bounds he got to her side as she rang the bell.

'Hello. You a friend?' he enquired, sounding rather too English than he meant to. She stared at him, a smile breaking across her face like sunshine, opening it up into a grin, her dark eyes twinkling in the gloom of the evening.

'Fernando, right?' she replied, lifting her chin towards him, her hoops swinging about her face. It was Fernando's turn to stare and then frown. Then he realised. This was the girl who Illya helped, who wanted to be a doctor. And who cut hair. He looked down automatically, seeing the little vanity case she was carrying; bright pink with black spots all over it.

'Frankie?' he ventured. All of a sudden, the idea of getting a haircut seemed a lot more inviting. At that moment, the door opened, revealing Tess.

'Oh, you two have met then? Good' she said, standing back to let them in.

'I thought you were supposed to ask us who we were on that monitor thing before you just open the door' Fernando said. 'You'll be in trouble' he added, smiling at her.

'Then don't tell him. What he doesn't know, he doesn't fuss about'.

'What doesn't he fuss about?'. Illya stood at the top of the stairs, blinking at them, and stifling a yawn. He had obviously just got up, from the sleepy eyes and even more untidy, wavy hair that he was pushing back from his face as he stood there. Frankie pushed past Therese into the hall, throwing her case on the floor.

'Geez, I mean wow! That is so, well, far out!' she shouted, doing a little dance in the hall in front of him, as he walked slowly down. She grabbed Illya's good arm, and started down the stairs to the basement kitchen with him, leaving Tess and Fernando, carrying her case, following on behind the unlikely duo.

'Is she always like this?' Fernando whispered to his sister.

'Yes. Good, isn't it?' she replied. 'Don't let the dippy act fool you though; she's very smart. Mind you, the slave driver there, is making her work' she said, indicating the blond figure being helped down the stairs in front of them. She felt inside her dress pocket and drew out two tickets. 'Here. You can have these if you like, we can't go now. Take her out later; I bet she'd like to go' she murmured. 'Illya has been trying to wean her onto jazz for a while. Just don't remind him that it was tonight, OK?'.

He looked down at the tickets. They were for a notable jazz trumpeter at quite a smart jazz club in the Village. It would be worth smartening up a bit for. As if she had read his mind, she pointed to the case. 'She'll sort you out' she added, 'after she's had a go at Adonis down there'.

A delightful aroma of cooking smells hit them at the bottom of the stairs. Illya had already made it to the kitchen and was standing looking in at the open oven door, until Therese came up behind him and banged it shut.

'Go away. You have to earn that extra portion, remember, _amado_? ' she said, turning away from him and putting on her apron. Fernando wandered over to where Frankie was standing by the large dining table, where she had put down her pink case, and pulled out a chair which she moved in front of the table into a free space.

'What does she mean?' Fernando whispered, watching Frankie unzip the case.

'It's called bribery' Frankie whispered. 'He is a real mule, take my drift, if he thinks anyone is making him do something, right?. So she kinda gives him positive encouragement, see? No nagging or shouting, and, hey presto, he's putty in her hands! See what I mean? '. Perfectly calmly, Illya walked across and sat on the chair, while she tied a large black cape round his neck.

'Remember, _cheri_ ', Therese's voice came from the kitchen, 'be kind to Frankie the _whole_ time and you can have the larger dish of 'crème brulee' afterwards'. Illya's face set into a beatific smile as he bent his head forwards and relaxed.

Xxxxxxx

The Friary was unusually busy, for such a normally peaceful place, so Illya was shown into another, smaller sitting room at the back of the house. Gabriel disappeared and returned, bringing a large pot of tea and several generous slabs of what looked to Illya like home made cake, on a large green plate. He removed his fur hat and unbuttoned his coat with a little difficulty, revealing the plaster casted arm beneath the loose unbuttoned sleeve of one of his warmer winter shirts. Gabi made no comment about the cast, merely indicating a chair which Illya could sink into opposite him.

'Is this a theological discussion, or just a social call?' Gabi began, pouring the tea into two mugs and pulling up a small table to assist Illya's one handedness. Illya left the tea to cool and took a piece of cake from his plate, breaking off a bit with his free hand.

'Um, it's personal, Gabi; it's actually something about someone you and Tess may have known in your youth' Illya replied. Gabi sipped his tea meditatively, waiting for his brother in law to clarify his statement.

'When you were, say about fifteen or sixteen, did you and Tess go to the island of Peronella at all?' Illya asked, picking up his tea and looking at Gabi with a rather serious look, Gabi thought.

'Of course. Well, I say 'of course' but I mean you know that we spent a lot of time in the water when we were there' Gabi replied, smiling. 'Your wife is a fantastic swimmer and diver, but you might know that by now'. Illya did know it. Her pregnancy had not stopped her from spending lazy afternoons with him in the sea round Mallorca, although she had not wanted to go diving with them, for obvious reasons he had thought then. Perhaps not so obvious now.

'Peronella, as I think you know, provides one with some outstanding diving opportunities, so yes, we went there every year; that is, until we met Li, then she wouldn't come again, of course'. Illya put down his mug slowly. A cold, hard feeling was uncoiling itself in his gut, and he thought he would be instantly sick if he ate any more cake.

'Do you mean by 'Li'' Illya said, 'Li-Hua Bolt, of Bolt Pharmaceuticals?'.

'The very one. I imagine Tess told you why she would never go there again?' Gabi said, leaning forward. Illya breathed out slowly.

'Tess denies ever knowing or meeting her' Illya replied, noticing the darkening of Gabi's expression. Gabi got up rather suddenly, turning towards Illya with an expression on the normally placid face that Illya had never seen before.

'That is simply not true' he said quietly. 'When we were about sixteen, we met Li on the island. Presumably you know all about her, otherwise you wouldn't be here asking me, would you?' he added, as Illya nodded. 'We became separated when we were doing some snorkelling together; she and Li stayed in the grottos and I think her tutor, this American woman, was helping me with my diving. Suddenly, Tess comes clambering over the top of the caves towards me, begging me to get out and come back with her to the boat where our uncle was. She wouldn't really talk fully about it, Illya, but I got the impression that Li had made some rather inappropriate advances towards her, if you understand what I mean' Gabi said, starting to pace the room. 'She refused from then on, ever to return there, even though she loved to dive. You know' he added, 'I felt then, even as a boy, that there was something really evil about that girl; predatory even'.

Illya ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end, then smoothing it down again, as if he had forgotten it was so short. He looked up at Gabi, then related the incident of the injection and Therese's account of it.

'Gabi, will you come back to our house and observe Tess while I ask her again about Li?' he said suddenly. Gabi nodded, going out into the corridor to fetch his coat. When he came back, Illya had managed to put on his hat and coat and was ready to leave. He leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling very tired. 'Perhaps, on the way home' he said, 'we could talk about how I should tell her, that at any time, unless we can find an antidote, she could be entirely under that woman's control'.

xxxxxxxxx

It was quite dark by the time they reached Grove Street, the street lighting casting their shadows hugely upon the walls and pavements as they walked back. Surprisingly, Therese remembered Illya's instructions to her regarding opening the door; she was naturally curious, however as to why her brother should accompany her husband back to their house.

'Let us in Tessy; your husband needs a hot bath and his bed' Gabi shouted into the intercom.

'Then what are you doing here, Gabi dear?' the disembodied voice replied, mockingly. Shortly afterwards, she was at the door. Illya thought she looked particularly beautiful, as she led them towards the front sitting room, drawing the cheerful patterned curtains against the winter night, whilst they took off their coats in the hall. She was wearing a cream caftan made of some silky material, on top of footless tights, her hair loose, and flowing down her back, almost to her waist. He had begged her to grow it, and she had obliged him, although he had been given the task of cleaning out the shower drain of the copious amounts of hair that collected there.

She helped Illya off with his coat and hat, smoothing down his hair and, when Gabi had gone back into the sitting room, licking one of his now exposed ears.

'What's wrong?' Therese asked, holding his face towards her, 'you look sad, _corazon'_. Illya, with a monumental effort to look cheerful, took her hand and led her into the room, where Gabi was sitting, rather stiffly she thought, on the green sofa. He sat her down between them, still holding onto her hand with his, conscious of their striking resemblance to each other, as they sat side by side.

'Tess, Gabi and I have been talking about Mallorca, and in particular Peronella' Illya began, looking into her eyes. Gabi slipped gently onto the deep red afghan rug that spread out in front of the sofa, so that both men were now looking at Therese's face.

'Oh have you' she continued, 'gosh, I haven't been there for ages; do you know I can't think when the last time was' she said, looking from one to the other. Illya glanced at Gabi. He already looked concerned; a little scared, even. Illya gently turned her face towards him, but making sure that Gabi could still see her quite clearly.

'Teresita, amado, do you remember ever meeting a woman called Li Hua Bolt?' Illya asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He glanced quickly at Gabi, but one look at his face told him that Therese's brother had noticed the subtle, but unmistakeable change in her voice, and in her expression. The shining topaz eyes momentarily seemed to cloud, then she spoke.

'I have never heard of that woman, and I've never met her'.

Then, like a storm clearing, she was restored, her eyes bright, with a quizzical expression on her face. 'I'm sorry darling, did you ask me something? I seem to have dozed off for a moment'. Gabi leapt to his feet and turned to face them.

'I'm sorry, I just remembered someone is coming to see me at nine. I'll call round tomorrow perhaps, to see Nando before his big day' he said, forcing a smile, and going into the hall. Illya followed immediately after him, shutting the door behind him. When they reached the door, Gabi turned and grasped Illya's shoulder.

'You need to warn her; don't be afraid that she can't cope with it. She can. And you need to find some way to protect her before that woman comes calling, Illya, for I am certain that sooner or later, she most certainly will call'.

CHAPTER 8

'And where do you think you're going at this hour?' came a sleepy voice from underneath the blankets, as Illya crept from the room, holding his training shoes in his hand. He froze, and then turned round to see his wife staring at him through a thick veil of hair.

'Um, I'm re-starting my winter training schedule, and Fernando is coming with me, in case you think I'm going to collapse on the streets half way round' Illya replied rather more sharply than he meant to, as he reached the door. 'After all, he needs to get up to spec quickly if he's to get through the next few days' he said, more gently.

She sat upright now, pulling the blankets round her and shivering a little. If he hadn't already got dressed, it would have been very tempting just to dive back under the blankets, the way she looked.

'Up to spec, eh?' she said sarcastically. 'So having a broken arm and two broken ribs plus a punctured lung doesn't make you think that you might not be 'up to spec' yet, my little Russian masochist, does it not?' she said, rolling out of the bed and walking across the bedroom looking for her dressing gown. Illya closed his eyes to prevent him losing his resolve. He knew it was going to hurt, but he had to get going again. After a week of enforced idleness, he was beginning to get stiff joints, and if she continued to feed him like she was doing, he would need a size larger clothes as well.

'The arm and the ribs were only cracked, and I have to start running off all the excess calories I've consumed this week' he said, as he heard Fernando coming to a halt outside their door. He opened the door to go out, forgetting about Therese for a second. But she was now cocooned in a soft pink dressing gown that made her look like a big pink rabbit, he thought, delightedly.

He had to go now.

'So you don't want the blueberry muffins for breakfast then?' she whispered; 'I'll just get out the porridge and salt then'.

'He didn't say that' came the deep voice behind Illya's head as Fernando came into view. 'Did you?'

Illya pulled on a woolly cap over his hair. 'Muffins . .please?' he said, blue eyes wide.

Xxxxxxxxx

The island looked particularly bleak as the black helicopter swept down from the lapis blue sky onto the landing strip at the side of 'La Masia'. Li Hua Bolt jumped down and ran under the rotor blades towards the farmhouse, carrying her attaché case and a large bag with the name of one of the more exclusive shops in Palma's name emblazoned on the side. After this phase of the plan was over, she wondered whether it was time to leave here for good. She reasoned with herself that she really didn't spend that much time here anyway, anymore; it was convenient because the government was obliging, but the old dictator wouldn't live for that much longer, and besides, she needed to find somewhere a little less well known for her child to grow up in.

She gave a slight sigh as she saw the familiar white-coated figure of Winnifred Engel waiting for her in the first floor living room. She was framed against the large casement windows, and Li Hua could just make out the figure of Fedorenko standing behind her. She wondered whether she'd recovered from the little battle she'd had with Illya Kuryakin. It was scarcely believable, that even with their informant in UNCLE HQ, they had still not known that he was there until Fed had actually run into him in her lift. She had made the excuse that he had been heavily disguised, but it was as well really that Fed had only given him a beating rather than anything worse; she needed him, or rather his genetic material, to complete her plans, and despite Engel's endless worrying, it would be quite simple to bring him here in the end.

She caught herself admiring the man. His academic record was outstanding and varied; science, languages, music, all at such a high level. Then his skills; he was obviously a talented and resourceful agent, and her informant had spoke of his abilities in the field as superlative. He was also extremely fit and strong for his build. In fact, a perfect specimen for providing future world leaders, and in particular, for giving her a daughter. She had her informant to thank for that information; the ante-natal scan she now possessed a copy of, showed clearly the sex of the child. She could mould the child of this man into someone who would be uniquely fitted to inherit her empire when the time came. It was a pity, in a sense, that she was unable to produce a child herself, but the irony of Therese as the mother did not escape her. .

She reached the house and ran up the stairs to the first floor room, where the two women were waiting for her. They had moved away from the window, and were sitting at a large olivewood table at one end of the room. Li Hua stood briefly in front of the open fire, and then sat down facing them, putting the bag down by her side, and opening the attaché case.

'Did you have a safe journey?' she said to them, glancing at Fedorenko, whose head was still covered in a large bandage, and whose bruised face was clear evidence of Kuryakin's visit to Bolt Enterprises Germany.

' _Ja, Fraulein direktor'_ Engel replied, 'and you will be pleased to learn that the programme is in full operation, at least it will be when the latest specimens are tested and used. We have processed and tested the required numbers of producers, and their preparation in its final stages before implantation begins. Of course, as you have requested, we have a further donation to receive soon, I hope'. She looked up from the papers she was referring to, and Li Hua could imagine the images in Engel's mind from the thin line her lips were drawing across her disfigured face. 'You have not informed me of the choice of producer for that particular donor' she almost spat out. Li Hua could see Fedorenko slightly stiffen at that point, and imperceptibly move forward on her chair. Li Hua began to laugh.

'Oh you don't imagine I am going to choose Fed for the task, do you?' she said derisorily, opening her attaché case. 'Do you seriously think that I would waste that man's semen on someone like you? We are trying to create someone here who will be head of UNCLE one day; not some daughter of a Ukrainian peasant!'. She gave Elena Fedorenko a pitying look, before looking down at her case again. 'No; we have to find someone who is a good match, physically and intellectually. Please ensure that I have a list of the remaining women, plus any guards who you think have the necessary 'qualifications', Dr Engel'. Li Hua gave Fedorenko a final disdainful glance. 'You should have taken him when you had the chance, when he was, shall we say, not in his right mind' she added. 'Now please leave us'. Elena's face, suffused crimson, reflected the shame and hatred coursing through her, as she pulled back her chair sharply, stood up and stiffly left the room.

Li Hua looked at Dr Engel. It was impressive how she had turned the process of reproduction into an efficient machine, with no wastage and no possibility of any loose ends. For intelligent women, the producers, as Engel called them, were remarkably naïve, thinking that they would be allowed to return home after giving birth with their memories of the event intact.

'Can I ask you about the Dormiben production?' Engel continued, as though nothing had happened. 'I was concerned that UNCLE had managed to obtain some samples through Solo's infiltration of the conference'. Now there is another man who would perhaps benefit from some surgical alteration to his anatomy' she hissed, making her customary strange circling motions with her hands.

'Well, Winnifred, you may have your wish, although you shouldn't be too greedy. After all, you will have the delightful Mr Kuryakin to play with before very long, as I promised. But this time', she said, 'make sure you tie him down very well, and I would recommend that Fedorenko stays very close'. She took out some papers from her attaché case, giving a copy to Dr Engel.

'As for Dormiben' she continued, 'we have suspended production in West Germany, as it was inevitable, after the UNCLE infiltration, that we would be reported to the government. Of course, when their inspectors came to visit, they found nothing except our very legitimate production lines. However, you will be pleased to know that production has begun here' she added.

'But, what if UNCLE finds an antidote?' Dr Engel persisted, peering through her glasses at Li Hua.

'Oh, if they have the drug, I'm sure that they will produce one. But they will find, dear Doctor, that the antidote has a rather unpleasant side effect for some people who take it. The male donors will not be affected, and after all, we don't need them again, and anyway, our chemists are at an advanced stage of producing the next generation of the drug. But I am counting on Mrs Kuryakin's conscience to make sure that she, for sure, does not take any of the antidote whatsoever' .

xxxxxxxxxx

'Mr Solo, transmission coming through to your communicator via Channel PX' Martine's voice boomed into Jo's office in the Legal Department. He was faintly surprised that Waverly had sanctioned it being put through, but he guessed he knew that he could ensure privacy there.

They had been sitting together behind Jo's desk making wedding plans, Jo having a now large manilla folder filled with neat notes on yellow legal pad paper, under a bewildering variety of headings.

'What is this, 'music for the first dance together'? Napoleon asked, spinning it round to face her.

'A crucial decision' Jo replied. 'There is a whole section on music, where I would appreciate you returning that slip to, when you have added your suggestions'.

'Yes indeedy' he replied, having no idea what to write. Perhaps he could consult Illya on this one. Then again, perhaps not. He removed his communicator from his inside pocket and twisted it to the required channel, grabbing a pad and pencil from the many that littered Jo's desk.

' _Napolina?' Wie gehts?_ '

' _Sehr gut, danke,_ Sabi' Napoleon replied, leaning back on the chair. 'Is it safe to talk for long?'.

' _Nein._ But I will be in a good position to make a fuller report this afternoon, as I have some free time, which I intend to make good use of, by visiting the Convent. They like the guards here to go up there from time to time, to check up on the nuns, and generally make them feel uncomfortable. Stupid, no?'

'Pathetic' Napoleon added. 'If you do get the chance, speak to a Sister Catherine up there. Apparently Illya tells me that she is a former UNCLE agent, and he thinks she could be useful if the going gets rough'.

'OK, darling. Klose out'. The door opened as he was putting his communicator back, to reveal his partner, his jacket pocket slung awkwardly over the injured arm.

'Good morning Napoleon, Connie said you would be here, sorting out important business with our legal expert, I see' Illya said, coming in and slumping down on the leather sofa opposite the desk. Jo stared at him over her glasses, then smiled.

'Is this a practice for your best man look?' she asked him, nudging Napoleon, who started to grin at his partner. Illya sighed.

'You are about the twentieth person to make some kind of wisecrack at my expense this morning' he said between clenched teeth.

'Yes, Connie told me that her little Russian lamb's golden fleece had been shorn' Napoleon added, ignoring the icy stare. 'Anyway, I thought you were due in Medical at ten. McDonald told me that Bernie Shearer wants to see you'. Bernard Shearer was referred to as the 'girl's problems' doctor, but Therese had made a point of avoiding him, after he had given her a lecture about contraception.

Illya made a face and got to his feet.

'Hey, Bernie Shearer; apt name for you, comrade, eh?' Napoleon shouted, as the Russian, with a withering look in his direction, exited the room.

Xxxxxxx

'First things first, let's have a look at you, laddie'. Illya could see his X-rays behind his head on the light boxes, showing the damage to his ribs and arm and a ghostly picture of his lungs and heart. It was a relief that they were no more than cracks, and that the healing process seemed to be well underway. Peter had allowed him to keep his clothes on, except for removing his shirt and vest, so that he could prod around the drain site, and look at the bruises on his back and sides. After another few minutes of listening to his heart and lungs, and taking his blood pressure, he was allowed to dress.

'Now Dr Shearer wants to have a word with you about the wee problem with your wife' Peter almost whispered, as Illya was attempting to tie his tie, until Peter took it off him and helped him with it.

'Thank you Peter' Illya said, for a minute not entirely sure what he meant until he suddenly realised. He had reported the incident with Therese to Waverly the morning after it had happened. It was obviously something to do with this. As if on cue, Bernard Shearer, without knocking, walked into the room. Illya had never met him before, but had been told about him, in very derogatory language, by his wife.

Shearer greeted Peter like an old friend, but only nodded to Illya. He saw immediately why Tess didn't like him. There was an arrogance about him that exuded superiority over the fortunate beings who were lucky enough to be treated by him. His tone was patronising, bordering on the offensive, Illya thought. He could hear Tess saying 'honestly Illyusha, I felt like a fourteen year old schoolgirl after he'd finished with me'. They sat down round Peter's desk, Shearer going through Therese's file cursorily. He put down the papers and looked at Illya over the top of his bi-focals.

'Mr Kuryakin. We have a little problem with your wife, and I want to suggest a solution which will be simple, easy to administer, and although it may cause a few unfortunate side-effects in the short term, I think you'll agree that in the long term, it's simply the best solution for you both, and for UNCLE'. Illya looked at them both in turn. He noticed that Peter was looking down uneasily.

'I'm sorry, Dr Shearer, if I appear rather obtuse, but could you clarify your last statement? Is there something wrong with the pregnancy?' Illya asked, feeling slightly worried. He was beginning to wonder why on earth Tess wasn't there with him, anyway, if it was to do with her condition.

'Mr Kuryakin' Shearer said, rather impatiently, 'Let me speak bluntly. Your wife has been given a drug which renders her completely into the power of an enemy of UNCLE. Due to Mr Solo's efforts, a sample of this drug has been obtained, and we have managed, in the last few days, to synthesise an antidote to that drug'.

Illya's face cleared. 'Well, what is the problem then? You mentioned side-effects. Do you mean nausea, or something like that? I'm sure she can handle it, but you can ask her . . '

'No' Shearer interrupted him, 'I do not mean something like that. In order to work, the drug uses prostaglandins. I don't know if you are familiar . .' It was time for Illya to interrupt. A clutching feeling was enveloping his stomach and making him feel dizzy.

'Are you suggesting that this antidote will cause a miscarriage?' he said quietly. He could see Peter visibly cringe at the word.

'Look, my dear man. There was no problem conceiving, was there? There will be opportunities in the future for other pregnancies, which, might I suggest, you make more effort to plan in a sensible fashion' Shearer said condescendingly. 'If you choose this way, then the problem is over. Your wife will be free of this rather difficult situation she has got herself into, and this woman can be apprehended without your wife being involved any further.' Illya got to his feet. He could feel himself shaking, and gripped the desk to allow himself to calm down first before he spoke.

'Dr Shearer' he said icily, 'Neither my wife nor myself need to wait for further opportunities, as you so patronisingly say, for other pregnancies, because we are delighted, planned or not, with _this_ pregnancy. I am not prepared to conveniently solve this 'problem' by agreeing to the death of my child. And,' he said, leaning over the desk towards Shearer, 'my wife, for your information, doctor, did not 'get herself' into this situation. It was forced upon her by an evil woman, who UNCLE is responsible for dealing with, without resorting to the death of an innocent baby'. Shearer slammed the folder shut, and sat back, staring at the furious Russian agent in front of him.

'For a scientist, Mr Kuryakin, you're showing a very irrational reaction to this eminently reasonable suggestion' he sneered, glancing towards Peter as if he might support his opinion. 'Might I suggest that you go away and think about it? You might want to consider this; if you agree to this course of action, perhaps it might be sensible for certain side-effects of the drug not to be revealed to your wife. After all, women are inclined to get rather emotional about these things aren't they?' he added, giving a nasty little laugh at his own prejudices. 'After all, there is no way in which even you, Mr Kuryakin, are going to be able to protect your wife completely from these people, until the child is born, is there?' he said smugly.

Peter came round to the other side of the desk with alacrity and pulled Illya away from what looked to him, like an almost certain assault on the gynaecologist.

'Don't give him the satisfaction, laddie' he whispered fiercely, 'I tried to tell him, but he was so bloody arrogant, he wouldn't listen'. Illya looked up at him, feeling a cold rage building inside him, and furiously fighting it down again. He took several deep breaths and turned back to face Shearer.

'Dr Shearer' he said quietly, standing in front of him, 'despite my profession, in matters like these, my wife and I do not have secrets from each other. Whatever you think, I can assure you that I will willingly sacrifice everything I have to protect my wife and child from anyone or anything that could harm them. To that end, I would be grateful if you could give me an assurance that you will never, ever, have any personal or professional dealings with my family again'.

Shearer stood up.

'You are making a stupid mistake, Kuryakin, when there is a simple, clean solution to all of this'. Nodding to Peter, without a glance in Illya's direction, he left the room. Peter put his arm round the Russian agent's shoulders and sat him down on the chair facing the desk. He walked round to the other side and pulled out a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses out of the bottom drawer, pouring a generous measure in both. Peter raised his glass and touched Illya's.

'Here's to the bloody English – I told your ma, and I'm telling ye – they're just not civilized, do ye ken?!!'

Xxxxxx

Sabi was as efficient as ever, her transmission coming through to Waverly's office at exactly the time agreed. Napoleon had arrived early to find his partner and Mr Waverly talking quietly together by the window. He knew immediately what the subject of the discussion was. He had run into Peter McDonald in the commissary at lunchtime, while he was glancing round to see where his usually hungry partner was lurking.

'I don't think you'll find him here today, my boy. As far as I know, he's in his lab, and you need to leave him there until he works it all out, I would say' Peter murmured. 'He'll tell you in his own time, I'm sure' he added before wandering off to speak to another doctor who had just entered the room. He finally got the story out of Bettina in Medical, after doing a considerable amount of grovelling.

'I shouldn't be telling you, Napoleon, but it was hard to ignore it; you could hear them in the corridor' she said, with a shocked expression covering the gossip she was longing to share. 'Dr Shearer nearly knocked me down in the corridor, he was so furious. He went storming off to Mr Waverly's office I think'.

'Ah, Mr Solo, I presume you've already heard about what has been going on upstairs, judging how fast gossip spreads in this organisation' Waverly said.

'If you mean Medical, then I had heard something' he replied. He was suddenly aware of Illya's expression. He had spent so long with him that he thought he knew every nuance of expression the Russian allowed to show on the rather delicate features making up his face. This time was different. There was real anguish apparent here, as if something was proving almost impossible for him to deal with. It was clear that Waverly had thought so too.

'I have told Mr Kuryakin that as soon as this meeting ends he is to go home and spend some time with his wife. While I do not in any way condone violence or intended violence shown against another member of this organisation, I sincerely hope that we can resolve this situation without the enforced loss of the most innocent of young lives before it has even begun' he added. Unselfconsciously, Waverly patted Illya's hand.

'You know, I was there when your wife and her brother were born' he chuckled. 'Val was on a mission in France. Marisa went into labour, and I was on hand as it were, to act as the 'pater familias' in his absence. She was a dear little thing, with lots and lots of curly brown hair, if I remember rightly'. Illya's eyes widened, and, smiling, he walked over and sat down at the table.

Vaz had joined them for the transmission. Sabi was able to give them a very thorough outline of the set-up on the island, the numbers involved, and the difficulties that there would be in any action against it. Illya explained to her what had happened to Therese.

'Have you told her yet, darling?' Sabi replied.

'No. I plan to do that tonight. We are going to work out some sort of plan to protect her until the birth, but we have to face the fact that if the worse comes to the worst, Sabi, Miss Bolt could kidnap her very easily' Illya replied.

There was a silence for a while, before Sabi replied.

'Illyusha, if by that you mean, she will bring her here, then you know that I will do everything to protect her'.

'Yes, _Danke_ , Sabi, as ever' Illya sighed. He wondered whether he could ever repay Sabi for all she did for him.

'Did you make contact with Miss Leighton? I mean, Sister Catherine' Waverly said, looking up from what had appeared to be a long reverie.

'Yes sir. She is a very strong woman, I think. She has promised help if we need it, although I'm not quite sure what the sisters can do against the might of Miss Bolt. She knows quite a lot that is going on, and has tried to help, but the sisters are enclosed, so they do not come out of the convent grounds. There is the gardener who works there, however, and there might be some chance of him acting as a conduit for information. Also, until now, Bolt has respected the enclosure and not come in either, so that is something to think about, don't you think?'

Waverly put down his pipe.

'I don't suppose you remember Nancy Leighton?' he said. 'A superb agent, brave and resourceful as well as highly intelligent. A great loss to the Command when she decided to go off and marry that Mallorcan chap. We lost touch with her after that; it's a bit of luck that she's turned up now, eh?'.

'Yes sir' Sabi replied. 'I have some plans of the complex that I've drawn and also some photos, which I'm sending via Sister Catherine. Has there been any progress with finding out who is the Bolt mole at UNCLE? I presume that whoever it is, they haven't discovered my identify yet' she concluded.

'No, Miss Klose, we are still completely in the dark about that, I'm afraid' Waverly said. Obviously, we are working as hard as we can to uncover this person, as, for the moment, we are completely dependent upon your presence on the island, as it were' he added. 'It is essential that we either do not move too soon, or, even worse, that we wait too long, and innocent lives are damaged or destroyed. Do all you can to keep us regularly informed, either through this channel or via Miss Leigh-I mean Sister Catherine, won't you my dear? Waverly out'.

Waverly clicked a button, and the door closed over the transmission desk.

'Well gentlemen. Any comments on all this?' he invited. Napoleon glanced at Illya, whose face was still set and pale.

'Um, when exactly did you think we might move on this, sir?' he began. 'I mean, we can't just sit here waiting for Bolt to kidnap Therese, or Illya for that matter, can we?' he said, getting no reaction from the Russian.

'Mr Solo, we are dealing here with a fiendishly clever woman, who, if she thinks we are on our way, will shut up shop and move somewhere else at the drop of a hat, you can be sure of that. As was patently obvious in West Germany, she is very skilfully running an entirely legitimate organisation side by side with an evil and potentially lethal plan for ultimate control of the most powerful institutions in the world. However, I am sorry to tread on your sensibilities at this moment in time, Mr Kuryakin, but it does appear that she has one weakness which we will have to try to exploit, I am afraid'. Illya looked up, calmly staring at Waverly, and then glancing at his partner's frowning face.

'I think Mr Waverly means Therese, Napoleon. She does seem to be interested in acquiring something of mine, and I'm sure that my favourite Nazi doctor is foaming at the mouth at the thought of it, but actually I believe I come a poor second to her ultimate, and somewhat irrational desire to induce my wife and child by whatever method it takes, to become her new family'.

'Precisely' Waverly added. 'It may be that in attempting this, she could lay herself open to infiltration and hopefully the destruction of her diabolical plan. However, we must do all in our power to protect your young family, Mr Kuryakin. I am therefore going to assign an agent to offer close protection to Mrs Kuryakin for the remainder of her pregnancy until the birth of the child. Because we do not know the identity of the mole, she is not to be party to either the strategies we have discussed, or the personnel involved, especially the wherabouts of Miss Klose. I realise this may be inconvenient to you personally, Mr Kuryakin, but I am sure you will want your wife protected, especially in the periods where you are away'.

Illya's face assumed a rather martyred expression, Napoleon thought. He wondered just who this agent was going to be. Illya leaned back on his chair and breathed out slowly.

'Dr McDonald has declared me fit for light duties now, sir. Could I not guard her, at least until I am declared fit for normal duties again?' he said.

'No, Mr Kuryakin, that wouldn't do. You will of course be with your wife when you are off duty, but we need someone who is completely dedicated to this one task all the time. Besides, I think you have rather a lot of work to finish in the laboratories, do you not? Waverly replied. 'Mr Solo can help you finish the outstanding reports not submitted last month, and then I am sure I can find plenty of courier duty for you both until Christmas. Mr Fernandes, Mr Torres is expecting you in Palma. You can maintain the link with Miss Klose until we have decided when and what we are going to do about this lamentable business'.

Waverly rose from his chair and walked back to the window. Although it was now nearly five o'clock in the evening, the night sky was well established, and he thought he detected the first signs of snow in the air, falling softly on the melee below in the street. Napoleon pulled his chair closer to Illya's, trying to avoid the cast resting on the side of Illya's chair.

'So, who is going to be doing the guard duty?' he whispered into the exposed ear of his partner.

'I have no idea. I'm only going to have to live with this person for the next four months or so', came the rather terse reply. Solo drummed his fingers on the table.

'Well, you can take one real positive out of this one, comrade' Napoleon said, beginning to smile.

'And what is that, Napoleon?' Illya replied, slowly turning his head and noticing that Napoleon had begun to form a smile which usually meant something which was entirely the opposite.

'We've got plenty of time to get you ready for the wedding'.

Xxxxxxx

By the time he reached home, Illya had rehearsed what he was going to say at least fifteen times, each time being different from the last. Peter had put a new, thinner cast on his arm which made things a little easier getting his clothes on, and he was grateful to Sabi yet again for the lovely black cashmere coat that was protecting him from the New York winter.

He reached the front door and tapped in the code, pressing his index finger into the fingerprint recognition security system that had been installed and which Therese called the 'James Bond' thing. He smiled to himself as he opened the door. Perhaps that was why he loved her so much, because she didn't take it all too seriously, despite being nearly blown up last summer. But this time, there was no alternative to taking it seriously.

The house was very quiet, a contrast to the seething noise on the streets coming up from the subway at Bleecker St. He looked in the ground floor rooms, then, after wandering downstairs and not finding her there, investigating the oven and the fridge to determine what was for dinner that evening, he headed upstairs.

He finally located her by the tell-tale red light bulb on outside the darkroom, lighting up the corridor at the top of the house. There were two bedrooms and a tiny shower room as well on this floor, which Illya always thought seemed to be waiting for something to happen in them. They had been used for guests, but they seemed to be telling him that they should have another purpose. He sighed. If Bernard Shearer had his way, he supposed they would be waiting until they had been married a sensible time then have their two children sensibly spaced. He thought of the little form he had glimpsed in the black and white photograph of the scan. He imagined the little arms reaching out to him now, expecting his protection. His mouth set in a line of determination at the thought.

He knocked gently at the door of the darkroom. All over it there were plastered little messages and signs she had brought back with her from her travels, with one, bigger poster, in the middle of the door with 'Ruskies, keep out!' emblazoned across it. He couldn't imagine where she had got that from. After a short while, the door opened a crack.

'Ruskies keep out' a dark voice echoed from inside the room.

'For how long?' he enquired. 'This Ruskie needs some Scouse comfort to soothe his fevered brow'. There was a silence, then

' _Pourquoi? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?'_ He leaned his head against the wall by the crack.

'Bernard Shearer' he replied. There was another, longer silence, then ' _Merde_ '.

After a few minutes, Therese appeared in the kitchen. She was wearing a long kaftan-like Indian garment with matching tight-legged trousers in a wonderful heliotrope colour, embroidered with a slightly darker, purple silk thread. Her hair snaked down her back in undulating waves, the coppery highlights picked up in the glare of the kitchen lights. Illya raised his eyebrows at her appearance, as he followed her round the room, obediently taking the plates and utensils she thrust into his hands and putting them on the large table in the adjoining room.

'You look very exotic for a Tuesday evening' he murmured behind her, as she drew a deep dish out of the oven and put it on the side to cool. Therese turned round, easing her back against the kitchen unit.

'Indian women don't have maternity clothes' she answered, looking down through her thick eyelashes at him, 'they just loosen off their trousers.' Illya put his arms round her back and pulled her to him, putting his face into her hair, feeling the comfort of it.

'Smart Indians' he said. 'Easy to remove too, I would imagine'. Therese smiled, then pushed him away and turned round to the dish.

'Eat first, then tell me all about it' she said softly.

xxxxxxxxx

The Indian clothes proved as easy to remove as he had suspected, even with one arm in a cast and aching ribs. The bedroom seemed a safe environment in which to try to explain.

'So what's that horrible man been saying to you then' she began, after Illya had spent a while rubbing her back, and was now sitting up with Therese lying spreadeagled across his chest. She pulled him down a bit, so that she could see his face more easily, stroking his ear as she gazed at him. Illya hesitated.

'He told me that they have an antidote to the drug Miss Bolt gave you. You remember, I've explained that bit to you, Tess, and you've talked to Gabi about it'. He felt her tense slightly, then relax into his body as he talked.

'Why is it then, that I have the feeling that you're going to tell me something bad?' she whispered, her fingers gently stroking his face. Illya took a long inward breath and turned his head, resting his chin on her hair.

'There are two alternate courses of action we can follow, _corazon_. Neither are good, and both will cause you suffering'.

Therese sat up, pushing her hair back, and pulling the pillows up to support her. In the reflections of the lamps in the darkened room, she could clearly see his face, grave and sad.

'Just tell me, _amado'_ she replied gently, 'then we'll decide together what to do, eh?'. He turned towards her, his eyes two pools of dark blue in the shadows.

'If you take the antidote, as Shearer has advised, then you will be free of Miss Bolt's power over you, Tess. However, there is a major side-effect. Taking the antidote will cause you to miscarry the baby' he said simply. She gripped his arm hard. He could feel the whole of her body becoming rigid, her eyes, like golden drills boring into the darkness of his eyes; of the whole room.

'And the alternative?' she asked, sounding as if she was on the other side of the room.

'It appears that the hormones released in your body in labour will act in the same way as the antidote.' Illya said, sounding harder than he meant to. He softened his tone. 'Mr Waverly has agreed to give you a guard until the baby is born. That is an extra guard to the one lying next to you'. Therese relaxed her grip on his arm, and pushed herself closer to him. 'Tess, you do understand that if you decide to refuse the antidote, even with protection, there will be a not inconsiderable chance that she may still take you' Illya added, finding himself clinging to her as she lay wedged to his side. She pushed herself back a little bit, pulling him down, and taking his head between her hands, kissed him for what seemed like long, silent minutes.

'Illyusha, it's not my decision is it?' she said finally. 'The decision is ours to make together. But I think you guessed right this afternoon, eh _amado_? '. Illya nodded dumbly, his eyes almost closed. 'Then I'd better make up the spare room for guard number two, and guard number one better make sure he is very close indeed' Therese whispered, nibbling his ear, her breath coming in short bursts as she spoke.

Illya leaned over and switched off the lamps. It was only later, in the darkness,that he was conscious of a dampness slowly spreading across his chest from the dark head lying across him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Napoleon's wedding, things do not go to plan, and Illya is plunged into the darkest night of his soul. Can he recover to execute Napoleon's plan and prevent the evil ambitions of Ms Bolt being realised?

A loud, insistent ringing on the front door bell woke them. Illya could feel Therese wedged into his back, a thick lock of her hair hanging over his shoulder and onto his chest, like a soft brown silk skein.

'What time is it?' her muffled voice spoke into his back. He peered at his watch and groaned. He could have sworn that he had informed the desk that he would be in late this morning; perhaps Napoleon hadn't got the message, and would then expect to be given breakfast, of course. He reluctantly shuffled off the bed and grabbed his dressing gown from the armchair in the corner of the room.

'Stay there. For once in my life, I thought we might have a lie-in, but as usual it is not to be' he said gloomily, wrapping the gown round himself and heading downstairs.

The ringing started again, causing Illya to frown with the jarring it made in the quiet house. Fernando? He was staying at UNCLE while the induction was taking place. Frankie? At this time? He pressed the button near the little screen by the door and stared. A woman's blonde head was turned away from him, looking down the street. He thought he recognised it from somewhere, work perhaps. Then she turned to face him. Jordan Lawrence stared into the screen, her sharp features framed as she listened to his voice.

'Jordan.'

'Hello Mr Kuryakin. Mr Waverly sent me. You know. To guard your wife?'.

She followed him down the corridor and down the stairs to the kitchen, her heels making a staccato noise on the tiled floors of the basement rooms. Illya felt slightly self-conscious, but she didn't seem to have even noticed what he was wearing, seeming more interested in gazing round the kitchen at the pictures and photographs covering the walls.

'I'm sorry I disturbed you like this' she said at last, giving him a rather dismissive glance, 'but I thought I should start as soon as possible'. Illya opened his mouth to reply, but before he could summon what to say, Therese entered the room. She had on the same fluffy bunny gown she wore in the winter; she had somehow anchored her hair on top of her head with a clip, making her look extremely desirable, he decided.

'Oh, Tess, this is Jordan Lawrence. You remember her from the party? Apparently she's been appointed to er, . .'

'Guard me. I'm sorry, Jordan, you seem to have drawn the short straw then' Therese replied, smiling.

She certainly did remember her. She was the hard-faced blonde with that smug agent who tried to get off with her. Therese sighed inwardly. Perhaps she'd be nicer when she got to know her better. She wiped the sleep out of her eyes, looking at her husband standing silently facing her. She had bought him the dressing gown he was wearing, intending it for Christmas, until she found that he didn't appear to have another one, apart from the lovely silk one she'd bought him when they got married. She fought back the rather sudden desire she had to go over and untie it, Jordan or no Jordan. Rather depressingly, she realised that she would have to control these sudden impulses while her 'guard' was in the house.

Squeezing Illya's arm as she went past, Therese picked up the kettle and started to fill it.

'Well, do you want to unpack now, or have breakfast first?' she asked.

'I don't do breakfast' came the rather severe reply. 'Or I sometimes have vegetable juice if you have it'. Therese tried not to look in Illya's direction. She swallowed hard. 'Oh, one of Illya's favourites' she replied lightly, avoiding a dig coming in her direction. 'I can easily make you both some, no problem'. Illya could almost see through the door of the larder, where he knew she had the muffins she had made yesterday, stored.

'Can't wait' he said, darkly.

Xxxxxxxx

'I reckon she fancies you' Jo decided, as she dodged a crab wedged into the ridged wet sand which the sea had left as it retreated into the distance.

'Josefina, you have a vivid imagination' her sister replied, shoving her arm into her sister's, and striding along the beach, the wind blowing her hair back in a straight line behind her. 'Well, then she fancies _him_ '. They looked behind them, heads close together, at the two figures walking close together twenty yards behind.

'And to think that they said I had no sense of humour' Illya Kuryakin murmured to his partner, as they struggled to maintain distance with the women ahead of them . 'After all', he continued, 'I've had to live with Miss Fitness 1966 for the past seven weeks'.

Christmas had been somewhat overshadowed by the preparations for the wedding, but also, Napoleon thought, by the rather darker prospect of the danger to Therese. He looked at the Russian as he walked beside him on the beach. For him, he thought, there had been no holiday, no season of goodwill. He could detect the tension that lay like a knife across these last days that they had spent together in England. Kuryakin was very skilled in appearing relaxed, but the rather drawn expression, the constantly darting eyes, were themselves a giveaway to the thoughts and fears beneath.

Therese, on the other hand, appeared perfectly calm, and Napoleon had witnessed her constant attempts to jolly things up, and distract her husband from his worst nightmares.

'Don't forget he's Russian; he has a large capacity for melancholia' she had whispered to Napoleon as they sat opening presents together in her parent's large and comfortable sitting room on Christmas Day.

Therese had entertained them at length with stories of Jordan, mainly when everybody else, including Jordan, had gone to bed, and there were just the four of them left, or they had gone out together to Liverpool for the night.

'It's not very Christian of me to criticise her' Therese had begun, 'but it's hard to live under a constant feeling of disapproval all the time. She looks down her nose at the way I dress, my hair, the house, music, marriage; you name it, she disapproves of it'. Illya nodded in agreement. It had been very difficult at times to tolerate her, but they had put up with it. Therese had not told Illya of some of the discussions about him they had had. Jordan had not openly criticised him, but Therese had the feeling that there was some innate prejudice that she held against him.

'Perhaps it's just that he's a man' she said, kicking the sand with her boot as they continued to walk along the beach opposite their parent's home.

The wedding was set for one of the days between Christmas and New Year. Illya had to be back in New York for the New Year, so these days were precious, to be enjoyed and celebrated. They had avoided the preparations that Napoleon, Jo and her mother were embroiled in, and had spent the time together, escaping from Jordan into Liverpool, to the shops, to football, even to hear 'the Mersey sound' at the Cavern one night. As they crammed into the tiny night club, Therese could hear the familiar voice at her side asking her 'just who are Gerry and the Pacemakers? I thought that was something cardiac surgeons used in heart surgery'. In the intense, dark atmosphere, she was acutely conscious of him; the strength of his arms round her; his hair glowing in the darkness like a soft beacon.

Napoleon and Jo had picked the latest time possible in the day to get married in church, with the guests clearly instructed to wear evening dress. It was dark by the time the guests reached the church and Therese thought there was something magical about the Christmas decorations, candles and tiny lights that lit up the church to welcome them.

'It's a little bit like a set from one of those Christmas films' Therese whispered into Illya's ear from the row behind, as he sat next to Napoleon, waiting for the bride to appear. He turned to look at her. There was no possibility of Therese being a bridesmaid now, he thought. Although from the back she looked perfectly normal, she was now unmistakeably pregnant. She was wearing a stunningly beautiful dark blue velvet dress with a soft silk stole wrapped round her shoulders, and her hair had been styled into a very glamorous chignon, the copper lights running through the interwoven strands like wire.

'Wait for me at the reception if we get separated' he whispered. As he turned back, he caught a glimpse of Jordan, sitting at the back of the church. She seemed to stick out from the rest of the guests, eagerly chatting or looking over to see who else was present. In a moment of cynicism a few days previously, he had contacted someone in Headquarters and asked them to make some more searching enquiries into her background. They hadn't got back to him, and he now felt rather foolish about it; as if there could possibly be a threat from the rather brittle, but efficient agent sitting behind them.

He felt a slight nudge on his arm and turned towards his partner.

'Got the ring, comrade?' Napoleon whispered, giving Illya a cursory glance. Illya glanced down at himself and briefly touched his hair. Strangely, he felt more nervous being this man's best man than he had on his own wedding day. On the contrary, the man sitting next to him looked the essence of calmness; immaculate, with every hair, Illya imagined, standing to attention as if it didn't dare be out of place.

'Of course' he replied, feeling the ring between his fingers, and his own wedding ring securely in place, as if to reassure him that whatever _he_ looked like, he knew he was loved.

Jo's wedding dress was made of a thick slub silk with a lovely stand up neckline, long sleeves and an integral train. She wore a beautiful tiara with a short veil, showing the short slick hairstyle beneath. Therese thought they looked like a couple out of a New York fashion magazine, but her gaze inevitably drifted to the side, to the Russian, standing quietly as the vows were made.

' _To have and to hold, from this day forward_

_For better, for worse_

_For richer, for poorer_

_In sickness and in health,_

_Forsaking all others_

_Till death us do part._

Suddenly, an almost unbearable sense of panic seized her, making her lean forward, clutching the top of the chair in front. Nobody else in the church seemed to have noticed, and Therese leaned back again, the baby suddenly making a lurching movement within her that made her take a deep breath. She glanced round behind her and noticed that Jordan had disappeared from the seat she had taken at the back of church. Therese turned back again to see that Illya was looking at her now, a worried look on his face, the look that she'd noticed becoming all too common in the last six or so weeks. She signalled with her eyes that the 'guard' had moved, but he appeared perplexed by her expression. She glanced round again. To her surprise, Jordan was again sitting in exactly the place she had been stationed in, since the service began.

The Reception was held in a rather large and elegant hotel which, normally busy in the golf season during the summer, was only too glad to receive a booking during a less busy winter. It was to be a formal occasion; a dinner, followed by an evening dance to an excellent large band and singer which Valentine McCaffery had managed to find. Therese felt that a little of New York had suddenly plonked itself stylishly down in this quiet part of an English northern county. The hand of Josephine ensured that everything ran smoothly, from the exquisite meal, to the witty speeches, and then on to the stylish dancing of the couples on the floor. A number of UNCLE agents, including Waverly himself, with his wife, had winged their way across the Atlantic for the occasion; Napoleon's parents and other, more distant relatives that Therese was less certain about, whirled past her on the dance floor. She took to the floor a couple of times with Fernando; now, so Illya had told her, accepted into the ranks, and waiting to go to survival school in the new year, and with her father, who, without spelling it out, gave her to understand that he knew there was something troubling her.

Finally, he came up behind her on the dance floor, relieving her from the arms of a large Irish cousin, who was struggling with the concept that this was a dinner and dance, and not a Ceilidh.

'Where've you been?' she whispered into his ear, pressing herself up to him.

'Oh, best man duties. Apparently, there was some problem with the train down to London, but I've managed to sort it out now' Illya replied. He jumped backwards imperceptibly as they danced. 'Um. I think our daughter is having her first dance too' he murmured, as the baby began to move again.

'Oh, so it's a girl then?' she whispered back.

As Napoleon and Jo got into the taxi, he drew Illya aside.

'You contact me if there are any problems, you understand' he murmured, his hand on Illya's arm.

'On your honeymoon? I don't think I'm going to be Russian of the Month in Mrs Solo's estimation if I do that, do you?' Illya replied, a sardonic smile on his lips. Napoleon was momentarily surprised by Illya's reference. 'Mrs Solo' sounded good. He put that out of his mind, and returned to the other, less pleasant subject on their minds.

'She'll forgive you. Eventually. Just do it, OK?' he urged, looking at Kuryakin, as he stood by the car. Sometimes, he thought, he just didn't look old enough to be married, let alone the rest of it. Illya stood in the road outside the hotel, and watched the taillights of the car fading away; he prayed that that communication was going to be one he wasn't going to have to make.

He turned back and walked towards the hotel, suddenly realising that Therese had not been there to see them off. He shrugged his shoulders and ran back in, shuddering a little bit at the sea breeze blowing in across the road from the beach. The party was still in full swing, the band now playing a selection of Sinatra songs that he recognised, thanks to Therese. A drink was thrust into his hand by Fernando, who was standing at the bar, chatting up some dark haired girl in a deep red satin dress. He couldn't help but smile at the radical change in his appearance; the dirty sandals, t-shirt and cut-offs and the unruly pony tail had been exchanged for an extremely well-fitting tuxedo and a short, bordering on severe haircut, which had left the top of his head a mass of tiny curls.

'Have you seen Tess?' he asked, interrupting them with a nod to the girl, who gave him a winning smile.

'As a matter of fact, I haven't' Fernando replied, wrinkling his brow. The girl, who Illya now remembered, worked in the London office and was called Daphne, also looked as if she was thinking about it.

'Is that your wife, gorgeous blue dress, piled-up hair, very beautiful, very pregnant?' she said, looking slightly worried.

'Yes, that's her' Illya said, impressed by the description.

'Illya, she went off with that blonde agent, in the black dress. I thought it was a bit odd, because they both had coats on, as if they were going somewhere else for the evening'.

Illya froze. He could almost hear his heart beating faster, thumping through his chest. He was conscious of the party continuing round him, but himself frozen in the middle of it. As if to compound his panic, his communicator began to sound.

'Illya? Bill here. You wanted to know about that Lawrence girl?' Before he could reply, the agent had rushed on. 'I think you should speak to Waverly immediately, Illya, and get your wife where you can see her. I don't know how you knew, but some very worrying background information has come through about this girl. God knows how it was hidden, but there you go. Illya? Are you there? Illya?'.

Xxxxxxxx

On their last day, Napoleon decided to make contact. Although the 'Bolt thing' as they had called it on occasion, rumbled on in the back of his head on most days, Napoleon had to admit that it had got shoved down in the department of his mind where UNCLE matters resided, while he concentrated on every aspect of what he imagined being married was all about. The two weeks they had spent together had rushed past in a glorious sequence of long, delicious meals, visits to innumerable interesting places which, for Napoleon served to provide the backdrop for just being with her, talking to her, sharing time together, and long, intense nights of passionate lovemaking. Past affairs, however exciting, seemed to stand as pale shadows to his present experience; Jo felt like a drug that he willingly swallowed, and that he now found himself totally, wonderfully, addicted to.

Occasionally he would lie awake in the dead hours of the night and think of his partner. The irony of marrying sisters was rather sweet, he decided, binding them together somehow in a new way; work, friendship, now family, all linking to form one inseparable and permanent bond. He imagined that nothing could have happened, and as the days went by, he was reassured by the silence, to a point. He remembered his horror at the thought of Kuryakin reporting about the island on his honeymoon, and felt the insidious drip of doubt begin to fill his mind. Would the Russian disturb him, even if it was that serious? He thought not, and that made it worse.

Napoleon sat on the comfortable bed in their bedroom, twiddling the communicator between his fingers. The apartment had been a good idea; it was situated in a delightful part of Paris on Montmartre, with a view of the church of _Sacre Coeur_ from the balcony of the elegant ' _salon_ ', and within walking distance of shops and restaurants in that _quartier_. Illya always came into his mind when he thought of Paris; they had spent several evenings with a detailed map of the city, his partner pointing out places 'tourists don't venture into'; writing lists of restaurants, even people who they could meet 'if you manage to get out of the bedroom, that is' he had said, his tone making him sound as if he was Napoleon's father, not his partner.

The shrill sound of the instrument jarred his thoughts, and he jumped slightly, getting up off the bed as he turned it to receive the transmission.

'Ah, Mr Solo. Are we free to talk?'. Waverly's voice sounded rather more formal than normal, if that was possible.

'Um, yes sir; Jo has gone out to do some last minute shopping, _as if she hadn't done enough_ , he thought. Afterwards, he was glad that he had been alone.

'Yes. Well, it's not good news I'm afraid. Mr Kuryakin was most insistent that you were not to be disturbed, but I think before any more time elapses, you should know that what we all feared has happened; Mrs Kuryakin has been kidnapped and as far as we know, is being held on the island of Peronella'.

Napoleon felt something akin to a rush of blood to his head. Despite knowing, talking about, and preparing to a point for the likelihood of this event, it still seemed absolutely shocking to hear Waverly telling him it had happened. A multitude of questions thundered into his head, and he took a sharp inward breath to try to unscramble his thoughts. However, Waverly continued, as if he understood what the American needed to know.

'It must have happened shortly before you two left for Paris' he said. 'It appears that she and Miss Lawrence were seen leaving the hotel and getting into a taxi, which headed straight for the airport at Liverpool. From there, she was taken by private jet to Palma, and thence by helicopter to the island. We attempted to intercept the plane at Palma, but they diverted at the last minute to a smaller, private airfield, and, well, the rest is as I told you'. Napoleon processed this information for a few seconds, before replying.

'Did you say that Miss Lawrence went with her? Does that mean that she is directly implicated in this?'. Napoleon knew the answer. He thought of Therese laughing about Jordan and how they had found her such a trial. It seemed incredibly obvious now that she was working for Bolt.

'I'm afraid to say that that is exactly correct, Mr Solo. Apparently Mr Kuryakin began to suspect Miss Lawrence and had Bill Garland run some more thorough background checks on her. Garland finally got to the bottom of it, but too late to prevent Mrs Kuryakin's abduction'. There was a pause before he added, 'I have to say, Mr Solo, that I feel directly responsible for this fiasco. I chose Miss Lawrence to provide close cover for Mrs Kuryakin. I thought she seemed to have the right attributes to do the job, and she seemed thoroughly trustworthy. I must be losing my judgement, it appears'.

Napoleon frowned.

'None of us really suspected her, sir, except Illya of course' he replied, knowing what he needed to ask next.

'Well, perhaps you're right' Waverly muttered. 'Now, we need to think very carefully about what is to be done to sort out this confounded mess. We have to put a stop to this woman and her infernal plans, and it's vital, Mr Solo, that we destroy both the formulae and the means of production of this mind-altering drug before anyone else is manipulated in this way. Mr Kuryakin tells me that the child is due to be born around the beginning of April, so it gives us a little time to formulate a plan to rescue Mrs Kuryakin and her baby from that woman's clutches, and any other poor soul they may have there, for that matter. I want you to go to Palma and work with our people there to monitor what is going on before we decide what to do. Unfortunately, it appears that they have some dampener set up over the island which means that satellite communication is impossible at the moment.'

'So no link up with Sabi?' Napoleon asked.

'Precisely. However, we are sending some support for Miss Klose, and she is able to communicate on a local band as far as Palma, so you will have to be the means of conveying that information onwards to New York. As soon as you feel you have the situation in hand, return here and we'll make our final plans'. Napoleon felt that Waverly was about to end communication before one of his most vital questions was answered.

'Sir? What about Illya, sir?' he ventured. There was a short silence before Waverly came back.

'I am dealing with Mr Kuryakin, Mr Solo. You will help him most if you can do your job in Palma as I have asked you to. Mr Kuryakin will be kept fully occupied here until your return. Then, and only then, I will decide what role he plays in trying to rescue this mess from the mire it has sunk into. Waverly out'.

Napoleon flung himself back onto the bed, letting the communicator fall softly onto the plush carpet below his hand. As usual, Waverly was displaying no outward show of emotion, although he knew that he was fond of the Russian in particular, and had made a number of very positive, even affectionate comments about the effect of Therese on Illya's life, usually when Kuryakin wasn't within hearing range. Now he wondered how the old man was keeping Illya from the despair that he knew would be entering the Russian's soul at the moment.

He scrabbled round on the carpet for his communicator. He could easily find out and put an end to the worries that were coursing through his head like ricocheting bullets at the moment. He pulled off the top.

'Open Channel D'. He waited for a few moments and requested Connie. If anyone knew what was going on to 'her Russian lamb', she would. The familiar Brooklyn tones were heard. 'Connie, this is Napoleon' he said, not needing to say more.

'Don't ask' she replied. 'I can't tell you anything, that's orders, except that he's holding it together, sort of. When he's not in that lab or on some damn courier trip, Waverly's taking up every minute of his life on this goddam programme, I swear'.

'What programme?' Napoleon asked. He didn't like the sound of it one bit.

'Look, I've already told you more than I should have. All I can say, Napoleon, and hey, I'm just the little old secretary round here, is that our Russian is being wound up tight like a piece of elastic, and when he is released, God help anyone who is standing in the way'.

xxxxxxxx

It was only later that Therese could remember the journey, and so it was profoundly disorienting, and deeply distressing bordering on terrifying, to wake up, as it were, in another room, in another house, in another country.

As she glanced wildly around the room, and at the faces of the two women, she noticed that it was very early morning. Although it was not warm, the air was not the damp, cold air of a Lancashire morning, or the freezing temperature of New York at Christmas. This was bright, clear Mediterranean air, in a bright blue Mediterranean sky. Of the two women, one was very familiar, and one, the one that had snapped her fingers to wake her, and now stood very close, was one that she realised she should know very well.

Li Hua Bolt sat next to her on the long sofa upholstered with the tightly woven bright coloured material she knew well. Mallorcan material. Behind her, Therese could see a large shallow copper bowl standing on a wooden base, that she knew contained charcoal to warm the house in the evening. Mallorcan things in a Mallorcan house. She should have felt comforted by them, but in this house, she felt acutely uncomfortable.

'Therese, at last' she said, as if a deal had finally been transacted, and could be filed away till needed again. She looked away towards the figure of Jordan Lawrence, who was standing, almost to attention Therese thought, at the door. 'You may go, Birch. You have done well. Report to Slate for uniform and further duties' she added, turning back to Therese. Jordan, or Birch as she was obviously called here, turned on her heel, and with a slight sneer at Therese, left the room. Li Hua got up and walked to the window.

'We don't have names that denote gender here' she began, reading Therese's expression. 'In fact, we try not to have anything that denotes gender here' she continued. 'Names, appearance, anything that denotes masculine or feminine is for the old order, as they say. This island is a glimpse of what is to come. So, no Therese, no Mrs Kuryakin any more. That is in the past. From now on, your name will be simply Storm'.

Therese took a deep breath into herself and exhaled.

'And if I do not cooperate?'. Li Hua moved back towards her.

'You have a choice. You must know by now that I can control you simply by uttering few words, my dear Storm. You are completely mine. Until the baby is born, I will allow you to move freely about this estate, except certain buildings which you will not be allowed access to. If you abuse your freedom, then you will spend the rest of the time in your room, if I tell you to, of course. There is no way you can leave this island, as you well know, and until the baby is born, there will be added security as well. After the birth, you will have to make a decision. You can stay with me, and together we can become a dynamic partnership. Our child will then be raised to inherit the new world that I am creating'. As she spoke, she drew nearer to Therese, her cat's eyes narrowing.

Therese jumped up as quickly as she could, bearing in mind she still had on her evening dress and was weighed down somewhat by the pregnancy. She backed away slowly, stopping only when she reached the wall by the window.

'Miss Bolt, or whatever you call yourself. I don't want to spend the time until my husband comes to collect me sitting motionless in a room; it's bad for the baby'. She could feel how stupid she sounded, and could imagine Illya's eyebrows raised at what she was saying, but she suddenly found this woman so utterly, deeply ridiculous. She plunged on, regardless. 'As soon as _our_ child, and by that I mean my _husband's_ child, is born, _I_ will be fully in control of myself, and I have no intention of letting you or anyone else anywhere near me with one of your horrible drugs. The thought of a 'dynamic partnership' with you fills me with disgust, and I would never, _never_ allow our baby to come within an ocean of your evil hands. Illya and I and the baby, we're a family, do you understand? We like our names, we're fine about being masculine and feminine, and we like living in the old world order, if you don't mind. So you can call yourself any name you like, but Illya and I have one thing you seem to have left out of the equation'. She stopped for a moment, getting her breath, and staring at Li Hua. 'And do you know what that is? We love each other'.

Therese braced herself for what she imagined would be the inevitable response. She supposed she would wake up next when the baby was being born, and she prayed very hard in that instant, that Illya would have somehow found a way to rescue her by then. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Li Hua began to smile, a cruel little smile that Therese had to turn away from.

'Quite a speech, dear Storm. Yes, you're right in one thing only. For your health's sake, you need to move around until the baby is born'. She sat back on the sofa, watching Therese. 'I wouldn't count on being rescued though' she murmured. 'Oh, I'm sure your charming Russian will be soon on his way, after we've sent him a little gift just to reassure him that you're safe and sound of course. But Dr Engel and Federova have been waiting a long time to be reunited with him, and we wouldn't want to disappoint them, would be?'.

At the sound of the two names, Therese experienced an enveloping dizziness, which threatened to unbalance her, and made standing difficult, especially in the rather high heels she was still wearing from the wedding. She flailed around for something to support her before her arm was tightly gripped and she was pushed back down onto the sofa. Li Hua walked across to the wall by the fire and pushed a button.

'Now, I think we've talked enough for the moment. Perhaps after you've spent a little time here, you may start to think differently about your future. However, we can't have you walking round in that absurd _costume_ with all that stuff all over your face, can we? Besides, I need something from you to send to your former partner, shall we say. Don't forget, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, my Storm. Now what is it to be?'.

xxxxxxxxx

On the plane back to New York, Napoleon tossed and turned in an agony of expectation and fear. On the positive side, he was anxious to be reunited with Jo. She had come to Palma with him for a week, to try to discover the legal framework behind Bolt in Spain, and to see if they could pursue an approach via the Spanish government, but it didn't look hopeful. She had then been sent some papers regarding an agent in Albania who had got himself into difficulties, so had spent the remaining two weeks working in Greece. He half wondered whether it wasn't all a put-up job to keep anyone even close to Kuryakin from seeing him, never mind giving him any kind of support.

By persistent bloody-mindedness, he had got a little more out of Connie. As soon as he had reached New York, Illya had handed over his keys to the house to the forensics boys, who had spent days in there, although both Connie and Napoleon couldn't imagine what they hoped to discover, even in the room Jordan had used. But they did find something.

'They removed a letter from the bedroom, from her to him, not opened. I've got it and a copy, Napoleon; Waverly thought it might be better if things like that go through you' she had said. Connie was a rock, he thought, although he wondered what could be in the letter.

The 'programme' as Connie had called it, turned out to be some sort of experimental health and fitness regime being devised 'by some guys out of the survival school' as Connie put it, for serving agents, but only men it seemed, 'to ensure optimum fitness' Connie read, from the leaflet she had stolen from the gym. It sounded gruesome, Solo thought, and normally, Illya and he would have found some way of killing it at birth. Normally. 'I can sure see what is happening to his body' she said, 'but what I want to know, Napoleon, is just what is happening to his mind? He's like he was when he first came here; the Berlin Wall has got nothing on him, I can tell you' she whispered, obviously looking out for the 'Berlin Wall' as she talked.

The apartment looked a little cheerless in the early morning sun, as Napoleon threw his bags down in the corridor, and went through into the lounge, but he decided that it was just the time of the year; dark, dank months. He had a sudden memory of these days a year ago. It must have been just over a year since his partner and Therese had met. He had a sudden image of the Russian then, in that fur hat, the long hair peering out of the edges like a fringe on a sofa. . He wondered what sight might greet him now when he got to the office.

In his briefcase, he had a full dossier on the Bolt case. Sabi was absolutely sure that Therese was at the house, but had not seen her, because she was now spending all her time on guard duty at the port and along the coves of the island on one of the patrol boats. Two other UNCLE agents had been able to get ashore separately, in the last few weeks with her help, and were now in place. Napoleon hadn't been told who these were, and exactly what they were doing, supposedly for security reasons, but he had a shrewd idea. The most worrying development, however, was that Jordan Lawrence was almost certainly on the island as well.

'If she sees me, darling, then I'm having it' Sabi said to Napoleon during one transmission.

'No, you've had it, Sabi, that's the expression I believe' Napoleon replied, smiling. She was always doing this when she spoke English.

'Oh sorry darling; Blondie is much better at these colloquialisms than I am. How is he, by the way?'. Napoleon had little to offer her. At times, he thought that if Sabi could ever love a man, then it would be the Russian.

Napoleon looked at his watch. The meeting with Waverly, and he presumed, Illya, was set for three o'clock. He wandered into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Although he felt rather jet-lagged, he decided to risk a foray into work to look for the Russian first. He didn't want to have to sit across the table in Waverly's room trying to signal to him for two hours, until he could get him on his own. He could grab a quick shower now and get a shave at Frank's before going to the office; besides, Frank was a rich source of office gossip, even though it was practically next to improbable that the Russian had been anywhere near the barber shop himself, of course.

His communicator started up before he could get into the shower. It was Connie.

' Message from your wife. Don't wait up, she won't be back for another week. Sorry Romeo. See ya later'.

He was standing in front of the wardrobe, pulling out a shirt, when Connie came back on the line. Her voice, the tones of which normally sounded calm, and urbane, seemed to have gone up a pitch, and increased in speed, so that he had to ask her to slow down, and repeat some of it again.

'You have to get here now, Napoleon, and do something before we have terminal melt-down' she began. 'Waverly'll see you a.s.a.p and then you can go rescue your partner, before either he explodes or those nut-jobs do the job for him'.

CHAPTER 10

Putting the shave on hold for the time being, Napoleon ran outside the apartment, simultaneously putting on his coat with one arm, whilst attempting to flag down a cab with the other. He threw his briefcase into the first cab which screeched to a halt at the kerb, and, mercifully avoiding most of the downtown traffic, found himself despatched outside Del Floria's in less than half an hour.

Waverly was uncharacteristically agitated, bordering on terminally bad-tempered. Napoleon had had no opportunity to interrogate Connie before the meeting, and it was obvious that the subject of Kuryakin was not going to be raised before they had dealt with the business in hand. Forcing down a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach, Napoleon somehow managed to present the report and his itemised suggestions for the solution to the 'Bolt fiasco' as Waverly called it.

As he closed the folder, Waverly bent down and retrieved a package from the set of locked office drawers in the corner of the room. It looked rather bulky, more than if there were just papers inside the thick brown envelope. He walked back slowly to the desk, sat down, and almost threw the package onto the circular table in front of him.

'This came this morning' he said simply. 'It rather changes things, in terms of when we act, I think. And I'm rather afraid that this training thing is getting out of hand too. You may have to intervene there, if you are to help Mr Kuryakin prepare before the due date'.

Napoleon stared across the table, furrowing his brow at Waverly's ramblings. He wondered what on earth he was trying to say, as he spun the table round for Solo to take the package. He grasped it as it appeared in front of him, surprised by the softness of whatever was inside.

'Yes, it's been checked, if you're worried about that' Waverly said. 'It's not dangerous, but it contains a very clear message, and it's very precious indeed to Mr Kuryakin, so make sure it is returned to him, won't you?' he murmured, in a rather sad voice, Napoleon thought.

He looked at the address first, almost not daring to look inside. Of course, there were no obvious signs of where it had come from, almost certainly having been delivered by a series of couriers, although the envelope looked European from Napoleon's experience of these things. It had been stuck down, and there was also a little cardboard button with string wrapped round it from the flap of the letter. He undid the string and put his hand inside, his gut clenched.

Slowly, Napoleon withdrew a very long, thick, carefully braided piece of human hair. To anyone who knew her, it was unmistakeably from the head of only one possible person. Napoleon had an almost instant image of its owner, with the hair similarly arranged, swinging round her head; the hair as alive and vital as she had been. Now it lay there on the table, lifeless somehow. As he gently laid it down, there was a glint and a metallic clunk as the braid made contact with the wooden surface. At the top of the braid, carefully pushed onto one of the three thick strands making it up, was a Russian wedding ring, the three overlapping bands clearly obvious against the dark hair. In the middle of the braid, a delicate necklace was wound round the whole thickness. Another image came to mind; a smiling bridegroom carefully fixing the jewellery round his wife's neck, while she held the copious hair up on top of her head. Finally, at the other end of the braid, a long thin, piece of paper was wrapped. Napoleon pulled it away from the hair and smoothed it out, reading the typed message, so chillingly delivered:

_Porto Petro Harbour, Mallorca. Wednesday March 25_ _th_ _. 6pm. Please do not be late, Mr Kuryakin, or your family reunion may be delayed. Permanently._

For what seemed like an eternity, there was silence in the room; the only noises seemed to be far off ones, of doors swishing open and shut, and, in Waverly's secretary's office, the far distant murmuring of voices. Napoleon carefully placed the piece of paper down. He suddenly realised that he was standing up, his other hand clenched against the edge of the table. He sat down silently and looked across at Waverly.

'As you can imagine, Mr Kuryakin was very deeply affected by what you have just seen' Waverly almost whispered. 'Perhaps I should explain what has been going on here since he returned, and then you will be able to take the appropriate action, Mr Solo'.

The fitness programme had been the result of a meeting which had included both Jules Cutter from the UNCLE Survival School and a US Marine Corps Drill Instructor, Randall McElroy, arising out of the concerns expressed after the murder of Kat and the recent subsequent betrayal by Jordan Lawrence. Napoleon grimaced at the mention of McElroy's name. He had been part of the team when both he and Illya had passed through Survival School, and had also devised and led a number of training exercises they had subsequently been involved in. He was without doubt, the most rabid anti-Communist Napoleon had ever had the misfortune to meet, and his reaction to Kuryakin was one of bullying, bordering on outright abuse.

'I'm afraid that I don't really involve myself in the physical training side of things' Waverly continued, 'but when this programme came up, Cutter suggested it might be a way of helping Kuryakin to channel his energies elsewhere, as it were'. Napoleon frowned at the thought, but Waverly seemed to want to explain, and was carrying on, tapping his pipe forcibly on the table at the same time.

'I agreed to him joining the programme, because he was so insistent upon doing so himself. They team people up with partners, apparently, and they gave him that new chap, Moore is it? I think the poor chap felt he had to somehow make it up to Mr Kuryakin for what had happened over Miss Lawrence, so I understand'.

The first phase took place in the UNCLE gyms, and did not involve the infamous Drill Instructor. There was to be a second, final part, consisting of three week's rigorous outdoor training at an UNCLE training camp in upstate New York, naturally under the supervision of McElroy.

'Excuse me for asking, sir, but how is it that the military seem to have got involved here?' Napoleon asked, wondering if Waverly knew Illya's history with McElroy.

'Cutter argued, convincingly it seems, that they have the expertise for this sort of thing' Waverly replied. 'However, I am concerned, Mr Solo, that, whilst I have the greatest respect for the United States Armed Forces, the involvement of the Marine Corps in this training programme might be a ploy to borrow, as it were, some of our agents for active service elsewhere, if you understand my meaning'.

Napoleon sighed. He understood his meaning all too well. McElroy had pushed hard for a link to be formed with UNCLE, enabling UNCLE to second agents to the US Marine Corps to work in Army Intelligence Units 'in time of war'. Still, Illya was not an American citizen so would not qualify, he concluded, with relief.

'Of course, Mr Kuryakin is at the moment, technically a citizen of the USSR' Waverly was saying, as if reading Napoleon's mind. 'However, I understand that he will be granted citizenship in . . ' he rifled through some papers on his desk, 'June this year, I believe'.

Napoleon stiffened in his seat. This was fast becoming not just a fiasco, but a disaster.

'Sir, I don't think this is the right thing for Ill- I mean Mr Kuryakin to be undertaking at this time. He may need to be fit to undertake what is required to end this mission successfully, but, as far as I understand it, he has received no counselling or opportunity to come to terms emotionally or mentally with what has happened'. Waverly put down his pipe, brushing the ash from his thick tweed trousers onto the floor.

'I am well aware of that, Mr Solo. In fact, Mr Kuryakin has been offered counselling, but has refused it. I don't know if you are aware of this, but he has also refused to return to his home, and is at present living in the Section 18 accommodation area on the sixteenth floor'. Waverly got to his feet slowly and walked to the window.

'Look, we have just under a month to get this thing', he motioned to the table, and Napoleon's gaze once more fell upon the braid and its message, 'off the ground' Waverly continued. 'This organisation stands in imminent danger of failing Mr Kuryakin and his family badly, if we allow him to go to that island without an adequate plan and at least a good chance of achieving our goals without the loss of innocent lives. For what it's worth, Mr Solo, I did everything I could to persuade him not to go on this wretched programme, but pressure has been bought to bear. I am afraid we all have to realise that an organisation like this is only able to operate as it does, while we have the cooperation of this country taken as read. Sometimes, this does mean that favours are called in' he ended, rather depressingly, Napoleon thought.

Napoleon got up and walked towards the door.

'Of course if he were to be, as it were, 'sprung' from this so called programme, sir, you would, of course, almost certainly deny all knowledge of how it had happened or who had been responsible' he murmured.

'Categorically, Mr Solo. So whoever is going to do this illegal act had better hurry up before Mr Kuryakin gets the idea that he might prefer to work for the armed forces of this country' Waverly replied. 'Oh Mr Solo, one thing about that date, before you go. Apparently Mr Kuryakin informed me that the twenty fifth of March is the birthday of Dr Winnifred Engel. It seems that Miss Bolt would like to give the doctor a rather generous birthday present this year'.

Xxxxxxxx

'God, I hate these Section 18 rooms. They are so faceless!' Connie exclaimed, as they stared into the room together. Napoleon had wasted little time in calling in a few favours, including the use of the master key to the Section 18 rooms from Andy Thomas, to whom he had given some great tickets to a 'lively' club, as it was described, when he had got engaged to Jo, and had emptied his wallet of all incriminating evidence.

The room was indicative of Kuryakin's state of mind, and was deeply worrying. Before Therese, the Russian had been legendary for his combination of untidiness and a simple lifestyle, leading to a tiny collection of clothes and worldly goods, which were nonetheless strewn about wherever he happened to be living at the time. She had achieved what Napoleon considered to be the near miraculous feat of allowing him to retain this somewhat charming unwordly trait, while introducing a gradual increase in his possessions, significantly in the area of his wardrobe. She had also taught him to fold things up and put them away. However, this room was different.

The charming house in Grove St, with its brightly painted walls adorned with pictures and hangings, and filled with interesting and beautiful objects, had been expunged. Instead, the atmosphere here felt like a combination of a prison cell and a military barracks; absolutely nothing broke up the grey featureless walls, and the bleak, utilitarian furniture. What was even more alarming, was the uncharacteristically rigid tidiness of the place. They looked at each other, thinking the same about the orderly stacks of papers and books, the stiffly folded clothes, and the absence of any photograph or remembrance of his wife.

'He made me go and get some clothes for him, but only these' Connie said, indicating the black suit and the white shirts hanging to attention in the wardrobe, with the underwear and sports clothes folded carefully in the shelves at the side.

Napoleon rubbed his hand across the faint stubble on his chin.

'Right. What exactly did he say when he left?' he asked her, sitting down on the bed, and taking a pencil and notepad off the immaculate desk by his side.

'He came back from Waverly's as white as a sheet. He disappeared up here for a while, and came back with a bag. I think it had some personal stuff in it, soapbag, you know, so I figured he was going somewhere, obviously. Then he told me he was going away on this programme for three weeks, so we went through his diary cancelling everything. He was sort of manic, you know, and I can tell ya, the Berlin Wall was up and there were guards on top of it with machine guns, know what I mean?'

'I know' Napoleon replied, drawing little spirals on the sheet while she talked.

'Then he says the last thing you'd expect him to say'. Napoleon started to write a list on the pad, then flipped over the page, and wrote some names, then wrote another note on the page underneath. Connie continued as he wrote.

'He says, 'please tell Darryl to meet me outside Frank's ', ' _Frank's,_ note', she said for extra emphasis, 'at 11 o'clock. He said he would give me a lift to the camp. And tell Napoleon I will speak to him when I return', and then he just goes off without another word, just like that. Now what is that all about?' she said, starting to try to read what he was writing.

'That', Napoleon said, sighing, 'is our Russian feeling very bad indeed about someone he loves, and deciding to punish himself just a little bit more for good measure'. He finished writing on the pad, then passed the three bits of paper to her. 'Right' he said. 'This is where Operation 'Rescue the Russian' begins. If you could obtain those things for me and have them delivered to Grove St, I'd be very grateful'. Connie looked at the list and raised her eyebrows. 'Next, ring this number and talk to Rita' he said, pointing to the number. Tell her that she needs to start what she and Mrs Kuryakin had arranged before she went away, and tell her I'll leave the keys with Frank. Frankie knows how to operate the door, and I'll put an override on it to avoid having to use the fingerprint recognition, OK?. Then, finally, most important, Connie. Give this to April. Tell her that if Friday night's too soon, then she can contact me using Channel P. Now, I've got a few things to arrange, and a few people to ring'. Napoleon got up from the bed, and with a last glance round, slammed the door behind him.

Xxxxxxxx

Frank's was mercifully quiet when Napoleon stepped inside, the early morning rush petering out to a few older, retired men and a guy who Napoleon vaguely remembered worked in Section 3. Frank's chair was vacant, but he was occupied sweeping the floor of what looked like an awful lot of straight, blond hair. He looked up, as Napoleon gazed at the cut hair making a little mountain on the floor before it was swept away.

'Hey, welcome back Mr Solo' Frank beamed, as much as he ever beamed, Napoleon thought. 'Enjoying being tied down to one gal? – but what a gal!' he added, giving the floor a final brush clean.

'Yep. Still enjoying it' Napoleon replied. Frank grabbed the stripy sheet off the chair as Solo sat down.

'Just a shave, Frank, I'm feeling a bit rough round the edges this morning' he said, leaning back into the chair. He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of Frank gathering the usual implements associated with shaving.

'How about this?' Frank continued. Napoleon could guess what was coming next. 'Had your pal in here, in fact you just missed him' Frank said, making it sound as incredible to him as it should have been to Napoleon if he hadn't seen what had been in the envelope.

'Oh really' Napoleon replied. 'That must have been a surprise'.

'Sure was' he continued, getting going with the lather, 'mind you, not that he didn't need a haircut, but hey, what's new?' he said cynically. 'Anyways, I thought I'd try the gentle approach, seeing that he's like one of those Sierra Nevada cactuses on the subject, so I says 'Shave or haircut, Mr Kuryakin, and he says 'what do you think?'. Mr Solo, he gave me a look that could freeze hell over I can tell ya. Anyways' he continued, obviously getting into the story, running the razor up and down a strap with loud thwacking noises. 'So I said to him, 'did Frankie let you down?, seeing that she usually sees to him, being good at those girly hairstyles guys like him go for'.

Napoleon managed to keep his face expressionless, which was as well, considering that Frank was now in full swing with the razor. He thought of his partner; the 'girly' hairstyle seemed so much part of Illya now; Napoleon didn't like to think what sort of anguish of heart had led to what was being described by the man with the razor.

Frank finished off the shave, and slapped the rather enjoyable hot towels on Napoleon's face. He was obviously determined to get to the end of the story.

'So, he just says 'I haven't got time' in that way he speaks when he don't expect you to say anything back, right?. So, I thinks, I'll just play it safe this time, because he makes such a fuss, like a kid, and I don't want Mrs K steaming in here because when she's mad, she's got this way of letting you know, right?'

'Right, Frank' Napoleon answered, sitting forward in the chair, as if they were sharing some secret conversation.

'Well, as I said, I start away, just giving him a little trim, like, tidying it up, so's he don't accuse me of making him look like a GI or all the other things he throws at you. OK. So when I finish, I says 'OK?' and, wait for it, he says, with a look that could send you to the city morgue, 'Too long'. Would you believe that?'. Unhappily, Napoleon would.

They had got to the desk now, and he was still talking, in a confidential sort of way, leaning towards Napoleon.

'So, I gave him what he wanted, Mr S. Not that he looked happy about that either. I mean, he has a beautiful old lady, kid on the way, what more can the guy want? Now, when he comes home and she tells him that number six is on the way, then he can start looking like that.'. He gave a large sigh and a look that seemed to signal that he had now seen it all.

As he was going out of the shop, Napoleon remembered.

'Frank, Rita agreed to do some work for Mrs Kuryakin in their house. Um, she wondered if she could start now. I'm afraid since she's been away, the house has got a bit dusty and . .'

'No problem Mr Solo. I guess we owe Mr K big time, seeing how much he's helped Frankie. And she thinks the sun shines out of his rear end, that's a fact. She is going to be pissed with me when I tell her what I just did'.

Xxxxxxx

The rain that had lashed the island for the last few days had subsided, resulting in a calmer sea, although a grey sky persisted, giving a depressing aspect to both land and water. Sabi leaned against the guard rail of the power boat, watching the water being churned up by the powerful outboard motor as they made their usual tour of the coves and inlets defining the coastline. The familiar outline of the farmhouse 'La Masia' came into view on the headland, with the outbuildings barely visible around it. She squinted to give herself a better view of the small bay that she knew was accessible from the house, which was when she noticed the figure on the beach.

It was a woman, though it was difficult to tell who, from the ubiquitous extreme hairstyle and black clothing that was standard amongst women on the island. She raised her binoculars to her eyes then adjusted them.

'River, stop the boat and let me off at this cove. One of Granite's guests needs help'. The other guard, a young girl from Austria, looked surprised, but cut the engine and allowed the boat to drift into the cliffs which stuck out at the edge of the cove. Sabi clambered off, and waving to the other girl, started to run across the flat black rocks towards the beach where the woman stood. Sabi could hear the roar of the boat's engine behind her, and glanced back in time to see it disappear round the edge of the cove. As she clambered down to the beach, arms were stretching out to her.

They stood for a few moments clasped together, before Sabi pulled Therese into the shelter of a large overhanging rock, out of sight of the farmhouse.

It was difficult not to weep at what she saw. Her hair was the most obvious and shocking difference. It had been cut close to her head, leaving about an inch all over. Sabi was struck, even so, with how beautiful she looked. The absence of the hair revealed her long, elegant neck, and only served to emphasise the unusual, golden brown eyes which stared back anxiously at her. She was wearing a pair of narrow legged black Capri pants, made of some stretchy fibre, and over them a very plain black blouse, buttoned at the back, with long sleeves, made of the same material. She was completely bare of any jewellery, so unlike Therese, Sabi thought, except for a wide, rather ugly, close fitting choker round her neck with tiny metal studs in it. There was nothing feminine or even mildly attractive in any of it, yet she managed to look good somehow.

She was obviously nearing the end of her pregnancy. The clothes only served to emphasise her condition, and incredibly, despite her size, she looked thin and drawn, as if the pregnancy had overwhelmed her body somehow. Yet, Sabi noticed a look of determination in her face, as if she was resolved to endure for as long as she had to. With difficulty Therese slid down onto the sand by the wall of rocks, pulling Sabi down next to her.

'Tess darling, are you alright?' Sabi began. It sounded a rather pathetic thing to say.

'I had no idea you were here' Therese replied, 'Oh it's so wonderful to see you Sabi; I thought . . .I thought nobody was coming before. . .' she faded off, tears starting up in her eyes.

'It's OK darling, he will come, they both will, and before this one arrives, I'm sure' she said, trying to sound reassuring. Therese jerked her head round, staring at Sabi.

'No, he musn't come, Illyusha musn't come! Those women, you know that doctor, and that Elena, the Ukrainian; they're here, Sabi, and she, she's going to hand him over to them if he comes, I know'. She suddenly turned her head away, looking at the sea.

'Tess, darling, look at me' Sabi said quietly. 'Illya will not let her take you or the baby away, do you understand? You have to just trust him to make the right decision about what to do for you all. Plans are being made, but we will not let him come here without proper backup. The most important thing that you need to do, is to keep well, and look after this one' Sabi added, stroking the top of Therese's abdomen.

Therese put her head back against the rock, as if to derive some comfort from it.

'I'm trying to be strong' she said calmly. 'If I try to fight her in any way, I know what she can do. I've reasoned that it's better if I go along with her as much as I can, so at least I'm not sat in my room like some kind of zombie until the baby is born. She hasn't tried to touch me, apart from when she did this' she said, touching her head. 'I think she's too concerned about the baby to do anything; but once I give birth, then, Sabi, well . . .'. She tailed off, silence finishing the sentence.

After a moment, Therese recovered herself a little. 'How is he?' she sighed. 'I'm worried that he will blame himself for what happened; you know what he's like'. Images of him flooded her head; Illya sitting at the table eating, with a 'please can I have some more' expression on his face; Illya playing the piano, whilst she stood behind him, drawing her fingers through his long, soft hair; Illya asleep on the green sofa, his arms thrown back like a child's; Illya in her arms, loving her. She swallowed, trying to fight back the feeling of nausea sweeping her, as the baby kicked her hard, sharing somehow in her pain and distress.

'I talked to Napoleon and he hasn't spoken to him, but he is back in New York now, so I'm sure everything is under control. Yes, I'm sure it is' Sabi said, looking away, before Therese saw the uncertainty lurking in her eyes.

xxxxxxx

The accommodation was as expected, strictly Army issue, Darryl Moore thought, as he slammed the door of their hut shut behind him. They had been there four days now. Four days of hell more like, he thought, and over another two, miserable, weeks to go. Before they had arrived, he had thought the programme seemed like a good idea; the extra work in the gym made him feel fitter, and more important, stopped him from thinking about Jordan from morning till night. When he had been told about her, he had felt sick to his stomach, and he had spent the first few days avoiding Kuryakin at every possible opportunity, but he could hardly carry on doing that when the Russian was paired up with him on the programme, could he?

In the end, Kuryakin made it easy for him. They were in the changing rooms on the first day when he appeared round the corner, giving Darryl a fright, because he hadn't even heard him come in.

'Mr Moore' he had said, 'I understand we have been assigned together for the duration of this programme. I want you to understand that I do not in any way hold you responsible for the actions of Miss Lawrence, and I would prefer that we do not mention anything about that particular episode during the time we are working together'. Darryl had opened his mouth to say something about Kuryakin's wife, but he had walked away. He had never mentioned her since.

Darryl recalled the party where he had tried to make a pass at Therese Kuryakin. He remembered Kuryakin's face when he looked at his wife; the expression of consuming love etched across the fine features. When Darryl looked at him now, it was as if he was looking at a completely different man. He wondered whether Solo was aware of what was happening to his partner while he was away, and not for the first time, wished that the guy would hurry back and do something.

He had a bad feeling in his water from the beginning, when Kuryakin arranged to meet him outside Frank's. The Russian's appearance was so radically different to his usual, sort of sloppy Beatle look, that Darryl felt his mouth drop open with the shock of it when he got in the car. They drove to the camp in virtual silence, Kuryakin just gazing out of the window most of the time, his eyes downcast, Darryl noticed.

He hadn't realised what a slimy bastard McElroy was, until he had appeared in the hut within minutes of them arriving. Kuryakin had managed to unpack all his stuff and arrange it as pristinely as if it was in a shop window, Darryl thought, which was weird considering what the other guys had told him about the Russian's habits, especially before he got hitched. McElroy came in and made a beeline straight for Kuryakin. Despite the fact that the other guys' stuff was arranged anyhow, he yanked all Kuryakin's stuff out of the locker and made him put it all away again, and everybody else's as well. And that was just for starters.

Darryl had spent the last half hour trying to persuade Kuryakin to come to the mess hall for what the guys were calling 'happy hour'; some sort of entertainment he had been told, to give the guys a break from that bastard, if nothing else. He had found him lying on his bed. He looked bad. That sonofabitch had made sure he did double what anybody else did, and he got the worst jobs; clearing out the latrines was the favourite one.

'Listen Darryl' he had said tiredly, 'McElroy cannot help himself, as far as I am concerned. He considers me to be, as he so crudely puts it, a 'filthy commie faggot' and that is why he is giving me his special attention. However, while he does that, he leaves the rest of you alone. I have had worse treatment, so I'm sure I can endure another few days, or weeks even. Now, if you don't mind' and he had turned over towards the wall. Darryl wished he had his communicator with him, but contact with UNCLE was strictly forbidden. He gazed at the figure on the bed; he could see some new bruises forming on Kuryakin's face. He didn't think his wife would be very happy at all if she could see him now, wherever she was. He turned sadly on his heel and left.

Xxxxxxx

Todd Harrington took his feet off the desk as the phone rang.

'Call for you, Mr Harrington. Says his name is Napoleon Solo'. Harrington sat up rather quickly, a smile forming on his face. Napoleon Solo. Long time, no speak, he thought, even though he owed Solo one for saving his skin a lifetime ago in Survival School.

'Napoleon. This is an honour to be speaking to UNCLE's finest' he began, looking across his desk through the window as a number of UNCLE agents and a couple of DIs walked past on their way somewhere, he guessed.

'Same to you Todd.'. It was good to hear the familiar voice again, Todd thought. It had been too long since the last time.

'I imagine this is not a social call, delighted as I am to hear from you' Harrington continued. He had a feeling he knew just where this was going.

'How perceptive of you. I find myself needing a little favour from your little organisation out there in the woods, and your name just kind of came into my mind' Napoleon said. He could imagine the wry smile at the other end of the line. He pressed on, taking the silence as being favourable. 'I need to extricate someone from a situation he has got himself into. All I need is for your guys on the gates to let in a truck on Friday night and let it out again later. They didn't see it come in, they didn't see it go out. Period'.

There was a pause before Harrington answered. He could guess who the 'someone' was, without being asked. He had seen the Russian, and had been shocked by the change in his appearance, and also by the treatment he seemed to be receiving at the hands of McElroy. He felt rather relieved at the thought that Solo seemed to be up to something; it saved him the job of having to confront that bastard and doing something about it himself.

'And this means I don't owe you any more?' he asked.

'Yeah, I reckon we're quits then' Napoleon replied.

Xxxxxxx

The entertainment hour was just getting going, if it could be called that with just guys propping up the bar, or watching the B-film UNCLE had so generously provided, Darryl thought. As he looked over towards the door, he saw a guard approaching. He hoped something hadn't happened to Kuryakin already. He had finally managed to persuade him to come to the goddam entertainment evening, when that SOB McElroy intervened.

'Mr Kuryakin and I have planned our own 'entertainment evening', Mr Moore. It's called 'Red Faggot's evening exercises' he added, whispering it into Kuryakin's ear, but quite loud enough for Darryl to hear too. 'So get your sweet arse out of here, Mr Moore, otherwise you can join your boyfriend here for a little night duty'. Kuryakin had looked at him resignedly he had thought, and had indicated the door with his eyes.

The guard was definitely heading in his direction.

'Darryl Moore?' he had asked. Darryl nodded. 'Mr Solo is outside and wants to see you, now'. Absurdly, Darryl's heart leapt, and he was outside the door before anyone had even noticed he had gone. He recognised him immediately, even in the dim light shining from the light outside the hall.

'Mr Solo? Thank the Lord!' he exclaimed, looking round to see if anyone was near enough to hear.

'Where is he?' Solo said, quietly. Darryl instantly calmed down, picking up the expression on the other man's face.

'That psycho McElroy has him down on the field, down there' he said, pointing down towards a patch of ground at the bottom of the hill. From where they were standing, they could see that some light from a neighbouring building made it just possible to see two figures standing by the corral fence that surrounded the so-called 'field'. It looked more like a paddock to Napoleon; somewhere they night keep horses or cattle in. Solo said nothing, then turned to Darryl.

' I want you to help Mr Kuryakin by doing something which I'll tell you about, to distract the Drill Instructor from his present occupation, OK?' Darryl nodded. 'When you've taken care of that, get down to the field as quick as you can, right?'. He looked at his watch, then took out his communicator and opened it.

'April? Give me five minutes to get McElroy's attention, and then start the entertainment. I'll let you know when the party's over. Solo out'. Darryl stared.

'Just what entertainment is that?' he said, noticing Solo's face starting to smile.

'The female type of entertainment of course' he replied.

Xxxxxxxx

The full moon illuminated the sea of mud and animal manure that only those with limited sight would ever describe as a 'field'. The recent enlargement of the Camp had included the land, which, allocated for a car park, still sat there as it had been when cattle occupied its boundaries.

Randall McElroy climbed up to sit on the top of the corral fence, watching Illya Kuryakin strip off his outer clothes, as he pulled his heavy winter coat around him to keep out the rain, which had been steadily falling for most of the day. With only his underwear on, it was easy to see, even in the comparative darkness, that the UNCLE agent was a mass of cuts and bruises, many of which had been hidden during the day from anyone who might be observing the activities of the agents on the programme.

With a wave of his stick, McElroy motioned to the Russian to walk away from him a few paces into the field. Within seconds, Kuryakin was becoming covered in the slimy mud which squelched beneath his bare feet as he attempted to move. He tried to rub his hands up his arms for warmth, but the combination of the wind and rain cancelled out any warmth he might have derived from it.

'That's far enough. I guess you're used to the cold where you come from, eh, Kuryakin?' McElroy shouted. 'But we don't want those nancy boys back at your headquarters saying that their little pet commie boy died of cold in his underpants do we?, so we'd better get your little red heart warmed up'. He jumped down from the fence, and took a step forward, gingerly avoiding the dark morass of mud in front of him. 'So, you commie faggot, we'll start with your favourite activity; forty of the best on this lovely American soil, boy, and I am counting'.

It was relatively easy for Solo to approach unheard. The noise of the steadily worsening rain, together with the goading of the man standing by the fence enabled him to come within touching distance. He peered into the field and although he could hear the grunts his partner was making, it took him a few seconds of anxious looking to work out where he was. Then he saw him. The Russian had finally succumbed to a combination of hypothermia and exhaustion, and was laying still in the field, completely covered in mud and filth. McElroy threaded his way towards the prone figure, shouting insults as he approached. He knelt down, continuing to scream insults into the ear, or what was vaguely the area where Illya's ear would be, were it possible to make out his features through the caked-on excrement.

Napoleon drew his gun, ducked under the fence, but was instantly aware of another figure just behind him. Darryl's face appeared out of the darkness, the horrified expression frozen onto it like dried wax. Napoleon put his hand out and indicated that he should remain in his position. He crept forward as McElroy stood up, still screaming abuse in the direction of the still figure on the ground.

'Get up, you stinking red faggot' he continued. 'Nobody is coming to rescue your tight little arse, Kuryakin; not now, not ever. Not even your Yankee faggot boyfriend from UNCLE'. As the words hit the darkness, he lifted up his foot, put it on the Russian's head and began to press down.

'Sorry to call a halt to the fun, McElroy, but this Yankee faggot boyfriend would like to take the stinking red faggot home for a bath, if you don't mind'.

McElroy spun round, slipping in the mud and falling back, just as the sky was lit up by a tremendous fireball and the rain was temporarily silenced by an ear-splitting explosion coming from up the hill.

'What the hell . . . .?' McElroy bawled, scrabbling to his feet in the mud, and beginning to run in the direction of the explosion. Even from the field they could see that chaos had also erupted in the camp. Half-dressed men were running from the hut which had housed the 'entertainment evening', as McElroy stormed towards them, barking orders. Obviously, April's alternative entertainment had been much appreciated.

Napoleon wrenched his partner's head out of the ground, rolling him over and clearing the mud out of his nose and mouth. He was ominously still; breathing, Napoleon was relieved to see, but worryingly cold to touch. Darryl suddenly appeared from behind him and, pushing Solo slightly away, lifted the still form onto his shoulders. The body of the Russian looked like a limp black sack on the broad back of the tall agent, but he was already moving over the fence and up the field as if he was carrying a satchel rather than a man.

The truck which had brought the girls from UNCLE, was revving up in the yard by the barracks. Napoleon could see the girls were packed into the back, with the flap down ready to receive them. They had laid a mattress on the floor between them, and some girls were holding blankets ready. Napoleon leapt up onto the back of the truck, as Darryl passed the filthy body into the arms of half a dozen waiting girls. It was almost ironic that Kuryakin should be practically unconscious when he had some of the best looking girls from HQ manhandling him, Solo thought.

'Get in; I somehow think we've outstayed our welcome' Napoleon insisted, pulling Moore into the back of the truck and banging the side to let the driver know they were ready. A couple of shots from a rifle whipped perilously close to the petrol tank, as the truck lurched towards the main gate. As they hurtled through, Napoleon could just see the figure of McElroy standing, rifle raised, with a scene of destruction behind him, like a flaming picture frame round his burly figure.

Someone, he imagined it was probably April, had loaded an emergency medical kit onto the truck.

'April, you've got to rouse him. He's very cold, and he needs warming up, but slowly' Napoleon shouted up the truck. 'Use what you've got; I guess body heat if someone can take the mud' he added, looking down at the mud-caked figure lying, shivering on the floor. At least twelve sets of eyes looked up at him, then down at the floor, then at each other. Seemingly without needing to speak, they all sprang into action.

A girl called Evangeline, who Napoleon knew worked in French translation, suddenly dived onto the Russian, and began to press herself onto him, moving to the side slightly as another, Napoleon thought she looked like that really good looking Mexican girl from maps department, fitted in the other side, performing a similar, body warming technique. Yet another had crouched down behind Illya, gently levering his head onto her lap, and, with her face inches from his, whispering to him in what Napoleon imagined were encouraging terms. April began passing blankets to the other girls, who began wrapping them round his body, until he resembled a baby swaddled by his mother in the traditional way. Napoleon could hear the familiar tones of the Russian, but he sounded incoherent, as if he was just coming round after one too many vodkas.

'If you're thinking you might like to be in his position, don't', Moore said grimly. 'You haven't seen what he looks like under the mud, and that's just his physical injuries'.

They arrived in Grove Street at nearly midnight. April had been surprised by Napoleon's orders to the driver, as they drove through the blocks of Manhattan streets towards Greenwich Village.

'Don't you think he should be in Medical? Look at him – he's barely warm after hours of all this' she indicated the girls' efforts, 'and Darryl says he's been really roughed up by that bastard McElroy'. Napoleon delved into the large pocket of his overcoat, bringing out Illya's set of keys to the house. Attached to them was a little metal plaque. April looked at it. It was the image of a nun, with little lettering in French round the top.

'St Therese' Napoleon read. 'Of course. He needs to go home, April. UNCLE is the last place he should be at the moment. Peter is coming in a short while, after we've restored his good looks, that is' he added, with a smile.

A faint glow from the front sitting room gave the lie to the idea that someone was living there. Napoleon switched on the hall light. He could see that Rita had restored the house to the clean, shiny place it usually was, but both the light and the shine couldn't replace the lack of human presence in the silent rooms. April and Darryl came through the door at the same time, suddenly filling up the corridor with their noise, startling Napoleon out of his silent thoughts. He heard a car outside screech to a sudden halt, as he turned to them.

'The girls want to know what you want doing with him' April began. 'There's been a call from HQ wondering where they all are, and I'm afraid I have to go too, but you've got Darryl here for any strong arm stuff' she continued, punching Darryl's arm playfully. 'Napoleon? What's happened?'.

Napoleon was staring at something going on behind them. 'What's happened' he said slowly, moving forward, 'is that the proverbial shit has just hit the fan'. They all turned in time to see the girls lifting down the canvas stretcher with the wrapped up form of the Russian writhing slightly in his blanket cocoon, his partially clean face a startling contrast to the rest of his head, which was caked with dark brown straw and mud. Napoleon saw the yellow cab turning away at the end of the street, and its former occupants advancing towards the three agents.

'You two soft lads come and help the girls, while I have a little chat with April' came an unmistakeable voice through the door. 'You can send this lot home then, lover; his family's here now'.

CHAPTER 11

The back room of the house exploded with light and noise as Darryl laid Illya onto the sea of blankets which now covered the rug in front of the battered leather sofa.

'This seems to be becoming a rather bad habit of yours, Napoleon, does it not, to deliver my child to me in such a state' Marina hissed, as she knelt down by the now quiet form of her son, slowly unwinding the blankets from around the top part of his body.

'We've been monitoring his temperature' April interrupted, hoping to break the rather awkward atmosphere in the room. She handed Marina a little piece of paper with figures written on it. Napoleon bent down by the side of her husband, who was listening to Illya's heart with a stethoscope, his face quiet and still with concentration.

'He's got a good, steady rhythm' he said, looking at his wife. She stopped what she was doing and looked steadily back at him, then at Napoleon.

'I'm sorry' she said. 'I'm sure you have done everything you can for him. You are a good and loyal comrade' she added, her accent and language sounding so formal and foreign; and so uncannily like the man lying on the floor in front of them.

Napoleon's heart had missed a beat when he saw Jo appear in front of him, Marina and Peter in her shadow, but those feelings were washed away in a tide of relief at her presence. It was as if she understood what he was trying to do without him having to explain. She knelt down by Illya's side, and gently stroked his face.

'Is he well enough to move?' she said gently, 'I don't think Tessy'd want him put to bed looking like this, do you?' Napoleon was slightly taken aback by her manner. Jo and Illya enjoyed a friendship that involved the pitting of their considerable intellects in a fairly light-hearted series of verbal battles. The subjects ranged widely from the role of women in the workplace, what constituted entertainment, the arms race, the space race, and of course, anything concerning the Russian's appearance, from the top of his head to his toes. Arguments between them were usually punctuated with frequent rolling of eyes on both sides, quite often a series of glacial expressions on his side, and very often exclamations of 'I rest my case' or 'well, that's your opinion, soft lad' on her side. Now she was crouched by his side, stroking the stiff, encrusted hair, a tear dropping from her face onto his, as she gazed down at him.

'I think you'll agree, Marina' Peter said, his deep voice resounding round the room, 'that there are no obvious serious injuries that either of us can see at the moment, and that his temperature is almost normal, thanks to the work of the lassies' he continued, raising his eyebrows at Napoleon. 'However, I'd say that your laddie needs a bath, a good long rest in bed, and then, when he's ready, a very long chat with someone he trusts, d'ye ken?'. Marina nodded, sitting up and smiling faintly at her husband. Jo got up, and Napoleon could tell instantly that she was about to assume command of the situation.

'Right' she said, looking round in Darryl's direction. 'Muscle man over there can carry him upstairs, and Marina and I will restore him to the man we know and love. You, lover, find some pyjamas and perhaps you can manage a nice cup of hot chocolate for everybody'. Napoleon looked at her. Hot chocolate was the last thing on his mind.

Afterwards, when he thought back to it, Illya couldn't remember the journey back from the camp at all. His last memories were of the weight of McElroy's boot on his head, and the feeling of the soft, cold mud squelching up into his mouth and nose. Frighteningly, he could feel himself acquiescing to the cold, suffocating darkness pulling him down, urging him to accept its offer of eternal nothingness. The shock of the warm water gushing over his head pushed him upwards, back into the brightness of warm life. He felt himself enclosed by rigid slippery walls, and then hands, pushing him down again, keeping him there, while someone massaged and sponged his head and body with swift, light strokes, the continuous water running down him and away somewhere at his feet. He attempted to open his eyes, and to form something with his mouth, but his body seemed unable to summon up the energy to respond to the confused commands of his tired brain.

Then he felt himself lifted from that hard place onto something soft, cocooning his sore body. He could hear familiar voices then; the first one throwing him back into childhood, then another woman's voice, lively and warm; the tone forcing a massive kaleidoscope of images of her to rush into his fevered mind. He began to form a word on his lips, making his brain respond to the pictures in his head.

'Therese; _corazon_ '.

xxxxxxxxx

The black helicopter momentarily eclipsed the afternoon sun, the whirring rotor blades blocking out all other sounds as it lifted into the sky and then suddenly swooped away into the receding distance. Therese shielded her eyes with her hands, then turned and walked towards the low outbuildings that housed the clinic.

She had always imagined that ante-natal appointments would be a necessary, but pleasant part of having a baby; but from the beginning, with this baby it had been different. She had considered Bernard Shearer to be, as she described him to Illya, 'a sexist pig', and had found alternative care by a more sympathetic obstetrician. Now she was faced with being examined by a woman who meant to torture and even kill her husband. She forced down feelings of panic and desperation as she thought of her meeting with Sabi. Despite what she had said, Therese knew that Sabi was worried. The presence of Jordan on the island was a constant threat to the German agent; it was incredible that she had not been discovered yet. Therese only imagined that Sabi stayed as a conduit of information to UNCLE. She hadn't seen her since that one meeting on the beach; only other women with more cruel intentions, surrounded her now.

She walked slowly along the gravel path and approached the door of the one storey building. From the outside, to someone visiting the house, it appeared to be just another farm building, with its picturesque pan-tiled roof and whitewashed walls, the intense purple bougainvillaea covering the end wall in summer, although now, just a mass of green tendrils, waiting for spring to produce its colour. It was a lovely time to have a baby, or would be, Therese thought sadly, but for the nightmare that was unfolding itself here on this tiny island.

She didn't immediately recognise the figure standing with her back to her in the room, but, as she swung round on the heel of her boot, her face was instantly memorable. Therese froze, her heart feeling as if it had been forced up her throat into her mouth, and then back again.

'Oh, it's the Russian's little English slut' Fedorenko sneered, and in a few short strides, had forced her against the wall, her hand squeezing Therese's arm until she winced with the pain of it. She could feel the malevolence of the heavier woman as she leaned in towards her, pushing against her belly.

'Get off me' she replied as calmly as she could, trying to look the Ukrainian full in the face.

As Elena turned her head, Therese could see a long, reddish scar still apparent on her scalp, under the rather thin, cropped hair. She was wondering about the scar when Elena noticed the direction of her gaze. She gripped Therese's jaw with her hand, her face now inches away.

'Your beloved husband gave me that' she hissed in Therese's face. 'I can see he was more generous with his favours to you' she sniggered, putting her hand on Therese's belly, and then beginning to slide it downwards between her legs. Therese closed her eyes, then, using as much strength as she could muster, brought her knee up and kicked hard. Elena released her momentarily, letting out a low grunt and gripping her abdomen. Therese forced herself to move, putting the examination table between her and the Ukrainian, but her condition made it almost impossible to prevent the other woman reaching her. She staggered under the blow, as Elena punched her, narrowly missing her nose, her fist glancing off the side of Therese's face.

' _Halt! Was sind Sie tuend?'_

They both turned, Therese gripping onto the side of the table to prevent her from falling, the pain from her eye making it difficult to focus. Winnifred Engel strode rapidly across the room, pushing Elena out of the way, and helping Therese to the nearest chair.

'What do you think you are doing?' she repeated in German, talking in short, staccato words and glaring at Elena, who was now backing away across the room towards the door. She pulled Therese's head up, and looked at her face. 'Well', she said, turning slightly, in a quieter voice, 'I hope you have a good story ready for when Granite returns and sees that you have damaged the little mother'. Elena's face drained of the unhealthy florid shade it usually was, and now reminded Therese of the colour of cold porridge. She backed out of the room rapidly, and disappeared, the door slamming shut behind her.

Engel walked over to the wall and pressed a button, which almost instantly produced a nurse from the next room.

'Give her something for her face, and then get her ready for examination' she ordered, without looking at Therese again. The nurse, another Bolt clone, as Therese liked to think of them all, fetched a cold compress and applied it to the side of her face, then, rather coldly helped her onto the examination couch, removing her trousers and underwear, and forcing her legs into stirrups at each side. Therese closed her eyes momentarily, inwardly fuming at being placed in this position of helplessness, as Dr Engel advanced towards her.

'You know, I could deliver your baby now, by section' Engels said, as she began the examination, running her finger across Therese's belly, as if it was a scalpel. Therese could tell immediately that she was in some way baiting her, trying to provoke a reaction. She thought of the nights she had spent, rubbing oil into Illya's body, wondering about the bruises and scars and how they had been made. Now, she tried to use this to give her strength. He had endured suffering and torture, she knew, and had survived. She would survive now – she had to.

'You could' she replied calmly, 'but you won't, because it's better for the baby to be born naturally, and Granite knows that. And you know that the baby is her main concern' she added, cringing at the touch of the German.

'How absolutely right you are, my dear Storm'. Therese's heart thumped at the sound of the harsh voice coming from behind her head. She yanked herself sideways a little to see the black figure of Li-Hua Bolt standing behind her. Engel jumped back fractionally, as Li-Hua swung round the bed to face Therese.

'I..I thought you had left' Therese said, cross with herself for sounding so off her guard.

'You shouldn't think that I'm in every helicopter you see leaving this island' Bolt replied. 'Why, are you missing me?' she ran her finger up the side of Therese's jaw, and through her hair. 'It's getting a little too long now; out of control' she said, pulling the little curls that now covered Therese's head. Therese lay her head on one side, closed her eyes, and choked back desperate tears. She thought of Illya. Immediately an image of him punching Li-Hua in the face, came into her mind, and guiltily, she began to smile at the thought of it.

'What is this?' Therese heard Bolt say, as she felt her eye and cheek touched. She hesitated. If she told Li-Hua the truth, then there would be serious consequences for the Ukrainian; if she kept quiet, then she added to the probable dangers that Illya might face when he arrived. Before she could say anything, Dr Engel had lunged forward, her face set in a strange kind of grin, cruel and calculating.

'It was Fedorenko. She is a liability'. Therese felt Li-Hua's gaze on her, her hand still grasping the curls, as if she was disgusted by them existing, like fast growing weeds.

There was a strange silent interval, then Li-Hua let go of Therese's hair and, dragging a stool up to the bed, sat down.

'Perhaps now is the time, Storm, for you to make your decision' she began. Therese turned her head and looked at her. 'You are right of course, the baby is my prime consideration; she is my future, and I will do anything, of course, to protect that future, and our life together'. Therese cringed at the thought. 'However, I've been thinking. I really do owe a great deal to you and your husband, don't I? After all, both of you, in a sense, have provided me with a daughter who will be both clever and beautiful, I am sure. So, dear Storm, I've come to a decision'. She got up, and walked to the wall, turning to face Therese.

'I will allow you to go free, dear Storm. Not only that, I will allow your husband to join you'. There was a loud cry from the other side of the room, almost a shriek, Therese thought.

' _Nein_! You promised me, Granite. You promised him to me!' Dr Engel screamed, slamming down something on the worktop that sounded metallic to Therese.

'Be quiet!' Bolt ordered. Absolutely calmly, she turned back to Therese. 'After all, you can have other children, can you not? Of course, you will have to promise never to come near me or my organisation again as a guarantee of your daughter's safety. So, there is your choice; you can stay with me and the child, as my partner, helping to bring her up and having a role in her life; or, you can choose your husband. If you choose to come with me, then I will promise that he will live, although not with you, I am afraid, although I'm sure, after a decent interval, he will find another to take your place. I think you'll agree, that it's a very generous offer' she finished, a faint smile failing to illuminate the hard features of her face.

Therese was pitched back to the evening Illya told her about his conversation with Bernard Shearer. There, he had chosen the life of the child, and irrevocably put her life into danger. Similar things were being said; there could be other children, this one could be sacrificed. At once, the baby, with what seemed like boundless energy, leapt in her abdomen, and did what felt like a somersault inside her.

'Take off these things' she said, pointing at the stirrups. Bolt came forward, and carefully lifted her legs out of the restraints, helping her to sit up. 'My clothes' she whispered fiercely. With Li-Hua's help she dressed and stood up, forcing her feet into her shoes.

'If I agree to go with you' she said very quietly, 'can I see him again one last time?'

Li-Hua looked at her, a sneer playing on her lips.

'Oh, I'm sure that can be arranged. Then, after allowing our little family to leave, he will be free to go on his way'.

'Then I will go with you Li' Therese replied, 'and with the baby'.

'Our baby' Bolt replied, walking towards Therese. She braced herself as Bolt came nearer. 'We'll have to have a little celebration later, won't we, my darling Storm' she said, putting her arm round her. Therese stiffened imperceptibly, then relaxed.

'I'd like to go back to my room now and lie down' she said quietly.

'Of course, whatever you say' Bolt replied, drawing out a small receiver from her pocket and clicking a button on it. 'Send someone over to take my partner back to her room' she said, looking at Therese. Therese gave a faint smile, not daring to look in Dr Engel's direction. The door opened and she looked round. A familiar face stared at her, then came forward to attention.

'Escort my dearest Storm back to her room' Bolt ordered. Sabi gently took Therese's arm and led her out.

As the door closed, Dr Engel turned sharply towards Li-Hua.

'Don't start, Doctor, just listen' Bolt said sharply, before the German could speak. 'It is essential that we do not have any trouble from her until the baby is born; do you agree?'. Engel nodded, frowning. 'Now, I could put her into a state of hypnosis, but I don't think that would be good for the baby. This way, not only will she behave herself, because as you said to her, we could deliver the baby now and I could leave with it, but she is now going through the agony of having betrayed her lover'. She sniffed derisively. 'You see, this is what happens when you allow a man to take control of your life, is it not?'.

'But you promised' Engel said in a rather pleading voice, 'that I would be able to play with him, as it were'.

'And so you can, my dear Doctor. Actually, all I promised was that he should live. In what state he is left alive of course, is entirely your decision' Li-Hua said, looking at Dr Engel, whose eyes were now shining, her hands running across the set of scalpels behind her lying ready to be autoclaved.

' _Ja wohl, meine fuhrerin!_

Sat on the bed, Sabi thought Therese looked absolutely exhausted, drained of the last vestige of the strength and vitality of the young girl she remembered from the year before. She hung her head down for a few minutes, then, with a few deep breaths, looked up. Sabi sat down on the bed by her side, and held the shuddering form in her arms.

'Oh Sabi, you shouldn't be here! This is too dangerous, and I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you' Therese cried.

'Tess, darling, what happened in there before I came in, what did she do?' Sabi replied, holding Therese gently. Therese breathed in slowly, gathering strength, Sabi thought.

'She gave me a choice and I choose my baby before my husband' she murmured. There was a silence between them for a few moments. 'But I have no intention of losing either of them' she said, her face setting into what Sabi afterwards described to Illya as a 'passionate' look. 'It was torture even pretending that I could possibly leave him; after all,' she said wistfully, managing a smile, 'who else is he going to find to clear up after him all the time?'.

'So, what have you actually agreed to do?' Sabi asked, slightly worried. Therese got up from the bed, and wandered over to the window.

'I've agreed, Sabi dear, to go away with her and the baby. It's the only way to prevent them from just taking the baby now and disappearing. She has promised me that Illya can go home free and find another wife – as if!' Therese said, starting to smile.

'Darling, he couldn't _possibly_ find anyone like you' Sabi replied, jumping up. 'But, Tess, I have to warn you that it's unlikely she is telling the truth, you know'.

'Of course she's not telling the truth' Therese replied slowly, looking out of the window. 'She has no intention of letting either of us off this island alive. She wants Illya's genes, and she's just using me as rent-a-womb, and then, well, she'll just move our baby, and the other women, off the island. She knows that it's going to be hard to close down her legitimate business, and she's got the money to disappear, along with her friendly mad doctor. Then, twenty years later, hey presto, we have a whole set of female geniuses to lead the world'.

Sabi walked up to the window and stood behind Therese. She turned towards her.

'I presume' Therese said, 'that you are going to let Illya come here, rescue me and then blow up the labs, without hurting any of the pregnant ladies that is, and then, 'she said, sighing, 'we are going to sail off into the sunset, right?'

Sabi was amazed at her toughness. The Russian must have rubbed off on her, she thought.

'Yes, he is coming, because we're hoping that only he will be able to get right inside here, but it's a high risk strategy. But no, he won't be alone, and he won't have to do all that blowing up stuff, just rescue you, _liebling_. However, as we both know, Dr Engel has designs on him, yes? So, that's why I have to stay here as long as I can. I have to find a way of helping him, particularly if he gets into her hands'. Therese walked round the room, holding her back. She stopped, leaning against the wall.

'Sabi, I made Li promise that Illya and I could have time together, you know, 'our last meeting'? If I had something I could give him, couldn't I . . .?'

'Hmm' Sabi replied. 'Do you have a needle and thread, Tess?'. Therese smiled, and opened the large armoire wardrobe near her bed. The armoire, in continental style, was composed of shelves, on which the selection of clothes Therese had been given, were folded. On one of the shelves, however, there were a number of little garments in white, standing out in stark contrast to the darkness of the others. Sabi pulled one of them out, a beautiful little smocked dress.

'Ooh, _sehr schön_ , beautiful, darling!' Sabi murmured, holding the delicate little garment out. 'Where did you get it?'.

'I made it, silly' Therese replied. 'I've had nearly three months here, remember, with no cameras and no music. So I begged her for some materials and made these. Luckily, she hasn't asked to see them; I don't think she'd approve', she said, smiling, and returning the little garment to the shelves.

'You are a clever girl' Sabi said, rather seriously, 'clever, and brave. Now, I have a few little things that you can sew into some of your clothes, OK? Then, I have something for you'.

Therese began to pull out a few clothes.

'Sabi' she began, 'can you do something for me? Can you somehow get a message to him? I wrote him a letter; it's in our bedroom. Make sure he's read it, and he knows that we are both fine. And Sabi, the most important thing; tell him, he is not to blame'.

'I will darling; I will get the message to him. Now, look, I've got these for you, but you'll have to hide them'. She opened the bag she had slung across her shoulder. In a smaller, cloth bag, there were two items: a book, and what felt like a figure. Therese pulled them out. The book was a Missal, the order of Mass and biblical readings for each Sunday. Therese clutched the book to herself, shutting her eyes. She put her hand into the bag again and drew out the figure. It was a baby, the figure of baby Jesus from a crib set.

'They're from Sister Catherine. She thought you might need them' Sabi said. Therese smiled, looking intently at the tiny figure.

'Please, if you see her, tell her that I am profoundly grateful for them' she said, 'and I will use them to help me, and him'.

Xxxxxxxxx

'Illya. . . . Illya. . . .Illya!' He was dreaming. He was back at the hotel. He was running from one room to another, looking for her. By the time he reached the place where she was, she had gone. Jordan's face appeared in front of him saying 'I don't do breakfast' over and over again. Then the braid of hair appeared, moving. He tried to grab it, but he couldn't quite reach. McElroy was now in front of him, screaming abuse. Then the dark, cold mud filled his face, choking him. Suddenly, he began to cry.

'Illya, if you don't want your dinner, just say so, only please tell me and I will go away'. For a minute, he thought it was her, then he realised. Dragging himself off the bed, he came to the door, turned the key and opened it fractionally. Without saying a word, he took the tray from Jo and turned away; the door had shut before she had time to speak. She turned disconsolately from the door, her lips set, and walked slowly back down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

The little group of hopeful faces turned towards hers were disappointed by her expression, as she threw down the tea-towel onto the counter top.

'This is bloody ridiculous' Jo said fiercely. 'This is three days now, and nobody can get anywhere with him. We've tried being nice, we've tried being hard, we've tried temptation, threats, you name it. I'm just running out of ideas, and meanwhile he's up there, like a caged lion, going slowly, or not so slowly, stark-raving mad' she ended, almost glaring at her husband, who stood leaning against the oven, his arms crossed.

The Russian had slept for what seemed like days after the night of the rescue, although it was only about fourteen hours, Napoleon estimated. Although Peter had declared him medically unfit and had signed him off for a week, he was one of the increasingly large group of people that Illya had refused entry to. Only Napoleon and Jo had managed to even catch sight of him, but this was only as food was passed into the room, and then passed out again, largely uneaten. His mother had spoken to him in Russian for long periods, and, after she had stopped, he had just told her, quietly, to leave him alone. She had returned stony faced.

'His father was like this sometimes; I'm afraid it is a Russian trait' she had said, rather stoically. 'Maybe, for the first time in his adult life, he finds himself in a situation which he can't control, and it is tearing him apart, bit by bit'.

Napoleon had also taken his post at the door. He had talked about the mission; how they would support Illya, what might happen, the likelihood of success. He had tried to adopt their usual jocular way of talking with each other, but it had sounded rather hollow when there was no sharp tongued reply from his partner. Eventually, he had revealed the message UNCLE had received from Therese via Sabi.

'Listen, Illya, she is fine, and the baby's fine, but she's worried that you're not'. There was an immediate response from inside the room, the door opening a slit, revealing the Russian standing there. Napoleon was shocked at his appearance. The punishment he had received during his days at the camp was all too apparent on his face, which had a large bruise covering his eye spreading towards a large grazed area on the cheek near it. Napoleon thought the usually clear blue eyes now seemed to have an unnatural hard glitter, and his hair looked dirty and dishevelled. He was wearing a very creased, old looking white t-shirt and shorts, his legs and arms revealing bruises and cuts to match his face. Strangely, although Solo could see the muscle development on his body, his face looked thinner, even gaunt looking, he thought.

They stood there for what seemed like a long while, before anyone spoke.

'Tell them all to go away' Illya said, almost brutally. 'I am capable of resolving this situation myself. I do not need to be waited on, nursed or guarded. I will contact you when I am ready to discuss future missions'. Before Napoleon could reply, the door had shut.

'Jeez, Mr Solo, you gotta do something, before he loses it, big time'. Frankie had also joined the group, taking up food, but returning crying after he had shouted at her through the door.

'He's never spoken to me like that' she sobbed on Jo's shoulder. After a while, she became quieter, and whispered, 'I miss Tess so much, Mrs Solo; she's like, my big sis. I mean, I've got sisters, but in our family, nobody has time for you, and I'm the youngest, so nobody takes any notice of me, period. But Tess, she listens to me anytime. You know, she's teaching me how to take pictures, and besides that, we have some cool times together, you know, just hanging out'. She stopped for a minute, looking up into Jo's face. 'Hey, you know what, he really needs her now. He might be a real tough guy at work, but she is the really tough one, for sure'.

Jo nodded. She had tried not to think just how much she was missing Tessy, but at times, even having Napoleon didn't fill the hole that had opened up in her life since her little sister had gone. She looked round the kitchen and the dining area beyond. It was full of funny, funky pictures, things, strange artefacts and hangings she had brought back from her travels, and, on the dining area wall, a set of photographs of her and Illya, in black and white. In one, which must have been taken on their honeymoon, he looked particularly beguiling; sat on an old chair under a lemon tree, his back against the trunk, and his hair, soft and bleached, falling over his forehead. Jo thought with alarm of the person above them now, so tragically altered from the happy, relaxed man who smiled at them from the photograph.

'Right. I've had enough' she said, walking towards the phone hanging on the wall of the kitchen. 'Time to call in Emergency Services'. Napoleon stared at the back of his wife, dialling a number she obviously knew. He could see that she was missing Tess, but his grief was mainly directed upwards, to the man upstairs. He had thought Illya might respond to him, but there was obviously something at the root of things that he couldn't help with. Solo reflected on the seemingly million times that they had come to each other's rescue on missions. Then, it had been simple; obvious. One of them was captured, the other rescued him, period. There had been times when they had had to deal with difficult, even traumatic incidents, and there had been romantic entanglements, even between women and the Russian. He thought of that English girl, some sort of noble family, he remembered. Illya had been pretty cut up after it, but he had recovered and they had moved on. But this, this was different.

Jo put the phone down. In thinking about Illya, Napoleon had not listened to the conversation going on between her and the person on the other end of the telephone. She came across and hugged him, her amethyst eyes looking into his for comfort and reassurance. He looked at her quizzically, wondering what she had been arranging.

'Called the men in white coats, then?' he said, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little. She smiled.

'No, not yet, although they might be coming for me before the end of the week. No, it's the man in the brown habit, darling. I'm just hoping that he might make the difference'.

xxxxxxxxx

The remains of the day flowed in through the bottom of the sash windows, below where Illya had pulled the blinds, giving the room an even rosier look than it normally had. He lay on the edge of the bed, the other side unused and empty, staring at the wall, over the top of the photograph which lay collapsed on the bedside table. He had laid it down when he had woken up, unable to look at the happy couple who looked joyously out at the world through the ornate silver frame.

After a while, he became aware that someone was knocking, quite gently, on the door. Illya sighed deeply, and rolled over, stood up and slowly walked to the door.

'Go away' he said darkly, beginning to walk away.

'No'. Illya stopped, and even smiled, grimly, a little. He wondered whose idea it was to send for him.

'I have no need for spiritual or any other counsel, Father' Illya said rather curtly, but remaining still by the door. There was a short silence, in which Illya became aware that he wanted something to happen.

'I'm not your dad, just your brother in law, so damn well let me in, otherwise I'll have to wait until your bladder is full now, won't I, you divvy' came the wholly unexpected reply.

The door opened, and before the Russian could change his mind, Gabriel McCaffrey pushed past him and leapt onto the bed, on Tess's side. He was wearing a blue hooded sweat shirt with 'Notre Dame University' emblazoned on it, and rather worn jeans, frayed at the bottom. He kicked off his shoes and lay comfortably on the bed, with his eyes closed.

'Love this bed' he said enthusiastically, not even glancing at the silent figure glaring at him, 'great to have so much room after you're used to a single' he added companionably. Illya found it difficult to look at the figure on the bed at first. In the fading light, it was very easy to see the physical resemblance between brother and sister; the colour and texture of his hair, his small, slight figure, very similar to Illya's own, and, when he opened them to look at him, the same astonishing golden brown eyes. Illya found himself breathing hard and wanting to turn away.

He walked towards the windows and pulled up the blinds, letting more rosy evening glow into the room, then sat down on the chaise longue that Tess had bought in some antique shop, and had had recovered in a wonderful deep pink brocade. Gabi was still lying on the bed, now looking at him. Unlike the others, he showed no reaction to Illya's appearance, and made no comment about it. They sat there for a while, Illya eventually lying fully stretched on the chaise.

'Why are you here?' Illya began, rather aggressively. He could feel the anger and fear in his voice, but couldn't stop it.

'I might ask you the same thing. I will. Why are you here, Illya?' Illya blinked, casting around for an answer that would send him away.

'I. . .I'm here because I was bought here. Yes, they bought me here' he said, trying to sound more controlled than his voice indicated.

'Uh-huh. And why did they bring you here then?' Gabi asked, putting his hands behind his head and stretching out on the bed. Illya ran his hand through his hair. It felt wrong; dirty, spiky, rough.

'I went on a programme after … after.. Christmas, and, well, well, it didn't go according to plan'. He looked across at Gabi, but his brother-in-law looked as if he was almost asleep. He began to think about the programme. 'I thought I needed it, needed to do it. Napoleon was away, and so I volunteered. What happened was entirely my fault, because I volunteered' he said, mechanically. Although he had his eyes closed, Gabi had obviously been listening.

'OK. So why did you really do it?' Gabi said, so quietly, Illya could only just hear him. He realised then that his heart had started beating a little faster. He could hear the distant sounds of traffic, and those closer at hand; voices, calling to each other. He could suddenly see himself at the window which was now just behind his head, looking out to see a girl with long brown hair walking along the street. A huge wave of emotion surged up and with a stifled gasp, he began.

'I should never have let her marry me. I pushed her into it, into the relationship. It was so fast, she didn't have time to think. And then, before we had known each other five minutes, she was pressurised by UNCLE into going back home to get me out of the stupid mess I'd got myself in at that coalmine. She must have felt sorry for me or something, I . . I don't know. Then I agreed to that stupid thing in Medical; Kat was murdered in front of her, and she was nearly blown up here in this house. Then, then' he rushed on, his heart thumping in his chest, 'I was so impatient. I couldn't wait; I had to force her into, into bed with me. Then I suppose she was trapped by the pregnancy; she had to marry me. And then, the worse thing' he said, beginning to slow down, almost panting with the effort, his voice beginning to shake. 'I was given a choice. I could have allowed her to take the drug, then she would have been free. But I was selfish. I chose the baby before her. I chose the baby before my wife'. Illya looked round, then gazed at the sun setting in the far distance. 'What has happened to Tess is my fault. I am to blame, but she is the one who is suffering for my selfishness and stupidity ' he finished, closing his eyes against the light.

Illya felt tears sting his cheeks, and started to brush them off. He was aware then, of Gabi near to him, just behind his head, his hand touching Illya's head quite gently.

'You _are_ responsible; but not 'to blame' Illya. Your guilt is twisting the truth of exactly what you are responsible for, is it not, and if you do not deal with it, you will not be able to do what you must for Therese, for your child, and for yourself'. There was a stillness in the room. Illya felt his heart begin to slow, his breath becoming less laboured.

'I suppose if you were a Catholic coming to me for spiritual counsel, I would say that you were in a state of sin, my boy' Gabi said, putting his hand gently on Illya's shoulder. 'If I were Frankie, however, I would probably say that you were full of shit'. Illya couldn't help smiling at the words; he suddenly felt ashamed that he had shouted at her earlier.

'When somebody is in the position you're in, Illya, this is how it usually goes' Gabi continued. 'First, like the sinner you are, you need to acknowledge that you've sinned. Then comes the bit when you work out exactly what the sin was. And finally, there's the saying sorry bit and the sorting it all out. Now, as far as I can see it, dear brother, you know you're in the shit, but you're letting the shit run your life, if you see what I mean'. Gabi walked round the side of Illya and sat down on the chaise next to him. Illya glanced at him, sitting nonchalantly by his side. Like his twin, he was a good four years younger, but at this moment, he seemed a lot older than the Russian sitting uncomfortably by him.

'What do you mean' Illya started, 'that I'm letting it run my life. I've admitted that it's all my fault, haven't I?' Gabi smiled.

'Yes, but 'it's' not true, don't you see?' Gabi replied. 'You are suffering, incredibly, under the misapprehension that even you can get my sister to do something she doesn't want to. Somehow, feeling bad about what happened to her, the fact that you couldn't control it, stop it happening, has made you think, you mad Russian, that you have somehow ruined her life'. He shook his head, the soft curls moving gently in the darkening room.

'Well, haven't I?' Illya replied, staring at him.

'No, you silly sod, but if you don't believe me, perhaps you'll believe her'. He pulled an envelope out of his jeans pocket. 'They found this in your bedroom when they searched it after you'd decided to go and live at UNCLE' he said, handing the envelope to Illya. Gabi went over to the bed and switched on one of the lamps nearest to Illya. The sudden light brought the Russian into painful view; Gabi fought hard to prevent himself showing any shock at Illya's appearance.

With trembling hands, Illya opened the envelope. The thought that Napoleon or someone else at UNCLE had read it first, flitted through his mind, and out again. It was hand written, the familiar elegant italic writing bringing a hard lump to his throat even before he had read a word. He grasped blindly for his glasses, which he had left on the bedside table, to find them being handed wordlessly to him by Gabi. He began to read the letter slowly.

My darling Illyusha, she began, if you are reading this, then what we feared has happened, and I am somewhere I don't want to be! It was typical of her, he thought, to try to make a joke of it, however grim the reality was. I'm writing this to try to help you while we are apart. He shook his head, wondering at her care for him. No doubt by now you will have blamed yourself for not being able to prevent this evil thing. Oh Illya, none of this is your fault. We are all free to choose, and because Li-Hua has chosen to do this, how can you be to blame? Illya sighed. It was if she had been in the room, listening to their conversation, helping her brother help him. I want you to know, my darling, that I have loved every single second of the wonderful time we have spent together! From the first moment, when we met at our front door, do you remember? How could he not, he thought. He could see her now, writing her telephone number on his hand, her delicate hand on his.

And when I told you I loved you on the phone, I said it first, darling, and I meant it! So, _amado, mi primer amor_ , stop punishing yourself! We, I mean our baby and I, need you to be strong, to make the right decisions for all of us, so that there is a future for our family. Illyusha, remember, I am proud of what you do, I am proud of you. Don't waste your strength and your time with destructive feelings of guilt that will damage you. Instead, use your Ruskie cunning to bring us home! Keep safe, my darling boy, until we are together again.

Your loving wife

Teresita

Illya gripped the flimsy paper, looking at the words, re-reading sentences, and running his finger gently across her signature. The Spanish version of her name was his favourite; he used it at special moments; she had chosen it deliberately. He put down the letter gently, then turned and knelt down by the chaise, laying his head on the seat. Gabi put his hand on Illya's shoulder.

'Well?' he said quietly. Illya sat back on his heels., his exhausted face somehow more relaxed, Gabi decided, hopefully. Illya looked up at him.

'At the risk of you accusing me of wallowing in more excrement, can I admit that my behaviour has been, well, inappropriate, shall we say' Illya said, with a wan smile on his face at last. 'So, my dear brother, perhaps you'd better tell me what I should do now? Gabi stood up.

'Well, you'll be pleased to know that you've done the hard part, now only the hardest part remains' he said, looking down at the Russian, and helping him to his feet. Now, you need to make sure that you accept the forgiveness of those you have hurt by your crazy behaviour, and then I will give you a penance'. He wanted to laugh at Illya's puzzled face. 'In other words, you have to do something to make amends, right?'

Illya's look cleared. 'Oh, I see. And what might that be?' he enquired, pursing his lips. Scrubbing the floors for a month?'.

'Nothing so easy' Gabi replied. 'No, I think you need to go and apologise to all the people you have upset and hurt in the last three months, and you can start with the people waiting downstairs. That is, as soon as you have thrown those clothes in the bin and had a shower, if you don't mind' he added; 'I think your wife would give you a good slap if she could see you now, don't you?'. Illya nodded, smiling a little more. 'She is going to hit the roof when she sees my hair' he replied; 'I don't suppose I could blame Frank . . .?

'Hardly' Gabi answered, nearly bursting out laughing at the Russian's expression. 'Besides, he's on your list'.

xxxxxxxx

They were sat round the dining room table in the basement. Napoleon thought the banging about that he heard from upstairs sounded like a good omen, but perhaps he was hoping for too much, too soon.

Gabi had come down to find them all anxiously sitting there, cups of tea in front of them. Even Frankie was trying to look as if she wanted to drink the tea, her eyes almost permanently filled with tears, which ran down her face with steady regularity. Marina and Peter sat close together, the big Scot attempting to comfort the diminutive Ukrainian by gently squeezing her hand with his own huge one.

'One in the pot for me?' Gabi said simply, helping himself to a mug from a cupboard. They had all stared, their gazes riveted on him as he poured the tea. He didn't turn round.

'Relax. The prodigal son will make his entrance shortly, after he's made himself fit to be seen in good company' he had said cheerfully, swigging down the tea, and helping himself to a large piece of cake that Marina had brought with her. After he had finished eating, he put the mug down and came over to them.

'Please don't sit here looking as miserable as you do now. He has been through a great deal, and he needs to move on, but before he does, he needs to say something to each of you, so I'd go upstairs and make yourselves comfortable if I were you. Oh, and I'd put something in the oven too. I think there may be one very hungry Russian amongst you before the night is through'.

They had all trouped upstairs then, turning the lights on in the front and back sitting rooms, bringing the dark house to life. Frankie searched through the record collection and found some favourite, and deeply calming jazz to put on the record player. Marina stayed downstairs, and slowly began to make a favourite dish of Illya's, a sort of broth with little dumplings in it, made with ingredients that she was astonished to find in the fridge.

After a while, the sound of water running and doors opening and shutting ended. There was a short silence, followed by the clatter of feet down the stairs, a very clear indication that Illya wanted people to know Illya was coming, Napoleon concluded. Then suddenly he was in the doorway of the back room where they were all lounged about, trying to look relaxed and failing miserably, Gabi thought.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Illya looked round, then disappeared.

'He's gone downstairs' Gabi said. 'Relax, people, please. He's gone to make peace with a very important person in his life. Not as important as you, Napoleon, but you'll just have to forgive him this once'.

'Funny man' Napoleon replied, Jo laughing for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

'They're not ready yet, so keep your fingers out'. She had known it was him before she felt his arms round her waist and his chin on her shoulder. Marina turned round. She frowned at the battered face in front of her, and the dark circles underneath the cornflower eyes, but despite that, he looked better somehow. She turned back and he came up beside her, leaning on the counter top by the oven. His soft white shirt and black corduroy trousers hid what she guessed were his other cuts and bruises, but at least he looked clean now, his hair restored to its golden colour, and for once, she thought, properly cut.

He walked over to the cupboard and fetched a large dish, which she filled with the dumpling broth mixture, handing him a large chunk of bread to go with it. Illya carried them both to the table and sat down.

'Mama, before I eat, I have something to say'. Marina sat down at the table next to him. He turned towards her, holding her hand. 'I am so sorry, I was unbearably rude to you upstairs. For what it is worth, the things you told me about my father, I'll . . I'll remember them for a long time, mama'. She hugged him close, feeling him wince slightly as she touched his face.

'Oh Illyusha, please don't do this to yourself again. You have a wonderful life here, with a wonderful family you have married into. Just be glad, my child, as I am' she finished, kissing him gently on the head. 'Now, eat, Illyusha, because I think you have a lot of work this evening, eh? Illya picked up his spoon and began.

After a while, when the second helping had been consumed, he put down the spoon.

'Mama? What about Anastasiya?'. Marina looked at him, smiling. 'What about her?' she replied ingenuously.

'No, not my second cousin. I mean the name Anastasiya, as you well know' Illya said, continuing to consume another chunk of bread.

'It's a lovely name, and very appropriate for the season the baby will be born in' Marina replied. 'If I'm right, Illya, your baby will be born at Easter'.

'Yes, that's what I thought' he said happily. _Anastasiya. Tasiya. My daughter._

CHAPTER 12

Jo found them the next morning when she came down. She was thankful that everybody else had returned home, leaving her and Napoleon to look after Illya, supposedly, she thought, looking at the scene in front of her.

They were laid each end of the long green antique sofa, like two very large bookends, but top to toe now, where they had gently slid down at some point in the festivities, Jo thought. Although it was well into the morning, the curtains were still closed, suffusing the room with a dull, but warm glow from the deep creamy yellow colour of the walls behind them. The rug in front of the sofa was littered with a number of plates, on which she vaguely remembered the Russian had piled the various delicacies he had found in the fridge, and which now contained a few crumbs and dried up bits of food. Lying next to the plates, an odd assortment of glasses and bottles lay, as if someone had decided to play ten-pin down the room, and had not quite scored. The tonic water, Jo remembered, had been produced mainly for her benefit, but the serious drinking had continued after she had managed to drag herself unsteadily up the stairs, Napoleon mumbling something at her which she couldn't now remember, and the Russian managing to stand and kiss her tenderly on both cheeks, before collapsing back on the sofa.

He lay there now, looking like an overgrown choirboy she thought. His face, though bruised and damaged, was blissfully peaceful, his hair still managing to look untidy, even without the long fringe to cover his eyes. Her husband's position on the sofa, on his back, with his mouth open, and a gentle snore issuing forth, tempted her to fetch one of her sister's cameras, if she could work out how to use it. She fetched a large tray from the kitchen, and began to clear away the detritus from the floor. It was tempting to crash something in order to wake them up, but witnessing the Russian waking up suddenly once, she decided against it. It might be dangerous to her health. She gently placed the last of the glasses on the tray and quietly left the room.

She was coming back for more, when Jo heard the clicking of the number pad outside, and the door begin to open. Before she could stop her, Frankie had pranced into the corridor, yelling,

'Did you have a swell party? I bet those two got really blitzed!' as she swung along behind Jo, totally ignoring her shushing noises, tapping the wooden floors with her black shiny boots. The door to the front living room swung open.

'Gee, Frankie, just cut the noise, will you? Napoleon stood there, holding his back, his tie hanging off, and his hair in unusual disarray. Frankie stared at the sight, then continued to dance away, as if there was a hidden transistor radio somewhere giving her a tune.

'Hey, don't flip your wig, Mr Solo; it's not my problem you and Mr Kuryakin got loaded. Anyway, where is he?' She suddenly looked worried, her dark brown eyes wide. 'He hasn't freaked out again, has he?'

'No, Frankie, I haven't 'freaked out' again as you so elegantly put it, but I will, if you continue to bellow at that decibel level' a very faint voice replied hoarsely from inside the room. Frankie pushed past Napoleon and almost ran to the sofa, where she knelt down and hugged the prostrate form of the Russian lying there, his hand over his eyes.

'Hi, Mr Kuryakin, Frankie shouted, then continued with a stage whisper, seeing the expression on his face; 'Hey, d'ye want your shades?'. Illya turned slightly and opened his eyes a fraction. 'Yes, that is very kind; they're on the table in our bedroom. Oh, and Frankie,' Illya said, his eyes closing again, 'call me Illya please; you make me sound like one of your teachers otherwise'. Frankie jumped up and ran to the door.

'Right on, Mr K-Illya' she shouted, nearly knocking Napoleon out of the way as she clattered up the stairs on her mission to find the glasses.

'Geez, what is she on?' Napoleon said, pushing Illya's legs out of the way and throwing himself on the sofa next to him. 'I don't know how you two stand it'.

'She's 'on' being young, lover; presumably you were eighteen once, or did you just go from childhood to middle age in one fell swoop?' a husky voice whispered into his ear.

'I am not middle-aged, thank you'. He put his head back to view his wife in an upside down position and reached out, trying to pull her near enough to kiss her. She seemed beautiful from whatever position he took, he thought.

'Why don't you two blitzed ones go and stick your smelly bodies underneath the shower while Frankie and I make breakfast' Jo suggested, running her finger down Napoleon's nose, and then gazing at the still prostrate figure of the Russian. She walked round the back of the sofa and stroked Illya's hair as she passed. 'I bet Frankie wasn't too impressed with this' Jo said to the back of his head.

'I've had to give her a written undertaking that I will not enter her father's shop again unless accompanied by a responsible adult' Illya replied.

Xxxxxxxxx

The circular table was covered with a large map of the island, with other plans of the house at 'La Masia' and the outbuildings, carefully placed at the side. Illya leaned over the table, tracing his finger along the road towards the Bolt estate, and the house where Therese was. Napoleon had told him that if he wrote, he would get the message to her, and he had spent one long evening agonising over the words, a basketful of screwed up pieces of paper surrounding his feet. Now, there were just days to go before he would see her again.

He looked across at the easel with its large pad of paper pinned to the board underneath. The details of the mission were carefully written underneath in Kristianna Blackstone's neat writing, from Napoleon's directions. He could see that his partner was doing everything he could to support him, but whatever the support, only he would be placed at the very centre of the storm.

Storm. One of the intelligence papers he had read from Sabi, gave a detailed account of day to day life on the island, including the Amazonian organisation Bolt had established. He remembered the guard he had encountered on the boat, and her aggressive, superior attitude towards him. Now, apparently, Bolt had extended her androgynous ideas to names as well, including his wife's. He fumed inwardly at the thought of Therese being called anything else, running through all the diminutives he called her; Tess, Tessy, Theresa, Teresita. _Teresita_. He forced himself to concentrate on the task ahead, her letter running into his mind; 'use your Ruskie cunning to bring us home! '. His eyes narrowed as he took a blank piece of paper and, sitting down, began to make a list of essentials for the journey.

The door behind swished effortlessly aside to reveal Alexander Waverly, Napoleon, and to Illya's surprise, the figure of his brother in law. Illya stood up rather suddenly in surprise, prompting a wry smile from his partner .

'Ah, glad to see you are here so promptly, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly muttered, coming round to his usual place and sitting down. 'I thought Mr McCaffery should join us, since he will be directly involved in this mission, after all'.

Fernando McCaffery, to Illya's relief and pleasure he realised, had managed to hold onto his relaxed and laid-back personality, while looking every inch the UNCLE agent in the making, he now was. The Survival School course had been survived, Illya presumed, and he could only guess that Fernando's intimate knowledge of the island was the reason he was now part of the team for this mission. While he could see the wisdom of this, in the back of his mind he worried about taking him on his first mission to such a dangerous place.

'Stop looking so worried. He's a big boy now, and you're not his papa' Napoleon whispered, reading the Russian's thoughts perfectly.

'Since when, Napoleon, did you add mind reading to your considerable skills?' Illya whispered back, his lips pursed.

'Oh, I guess since you let that wife of yours unwind you enough for you to come out from that impenetrable arctic barrier you used to hide behind, comrade' Solo replied, giving his partner what the Russian called a 'smart American' look.

Fernando was laid back, literally, on the chair facing Illya and Napoleon round the table, giving the Russian an appraising look.

'What's with the poster boy for the US military look?' he whispered to Napoleon, showing signs of being with Americans too much, Napoleon thought.

'I wouldn't mention it if I were you' he replied, 'let's just put it down to a bad reaction to your sister's absence, if you get my drift. Anyway, you should have seen him three weeks ago'. Fernando nodded, suppressing a grin before the Russian, who was now reaching the end of the piece of paper, could look up from his list.

Waverly had the map of Peronella displayed on the screen above them when they looked up.

'Perhaps if you're ready, Mr Solo, you could begin your presentation. I'm sure Mr Kuryakin would be very glad to know exactly how you are going to both ensure his safety and enable the mission to be completed, would you not, Mr Kuryakin?'

xxxxxxx

The shock of the water made the baby quiver within her as Therese plunged in. The brilliant spring sky intensified the blueness of the sea lapping round her as she swam out towards the rocky cove at the edge of the beach. The water proved liberating from the weight of the baby, as she lay on her back and allowed herself to float gently on the top of the water. The beach lay in the distance, the sun casting shadows from the pines bordering the sand and the cliffs behind and glinting on the black pile of Therese's clothes. After a few minutes drifting, she turned over, feeling whale-like but surprisingly graceful, and swam a few strokes towards the flat, black rocks, grabbing the smooth edge and laying her arms on the rough, flat surface.

She was suddenly aware of the approach of a boat from the other side of the cove, causing eddies to spill over the rocks just above her. The boat docked against the side of the flat rocks and a guard jumped off, another woman the other side of the boat making sure it was anchored. Therese froze, her body shaking with cold and shock.

The guard strode towards her, her leather boots squelching on the wet rocks. Before Therese could slip back into the water, she got hold of her hands, kneeling down, her face close to Therese's.

'Jordan' Therese said, staring up at her. A look of loathing filled the former UNCLE agent's face.

'Birch. My name is Birch now' she barked at Therese, her lips curved in an unpleasant sneer. She turned away from the girl in the water and shouted to the other guard, who instantly appeared next to her. She was short and rather squat, with bright red hair which glinted in the harsh light. The second guard knelt down the other side of Therese, looking at her and then at Jordan.

'We'll take her back; I'm sure Granite will be delighted that you have been so stupid, swimming out here alone'. Jordan began to stand up in order to pull Therese out of the water, signalling to the other guard to help her. A surge of rage coursed through Therese; she threw herself backwards, unbalancing the blonde American, who toppled forwards, and with a large splash, hit the water below the rock. As Therese swam away through the seething blue water, she could hear Jordan screaming to the other guard, and the frantic response of the other guard as she attempted to pull her back onto the rock.

The sand thudded onto Therese's knees, telling her that dry land had almost been reached, as, in her desperation to get away from Jordan, she had closed her eyes and pushed her head into the water to swim faster. She clambered, heaving with the effort, onto the beach, and grabbed the towel she had brought with her, rubbing her naked body furiously. Turning towards the sea, she could see the two figures of Jordan and the other guard standing on the rocks staring at her. She could see Jordan turn to the other woman and say something, before they both walked rapidly back to the boat. A feeling of utter exhaustion hit Therese like the waves she had swum through, her legs beginning to buckle under her as she felt the sun begin to warm her back. She sat down on the towel and began to force on the black trousers and top over her swollen belly.

Jordan flung down the towel into the boat, shaking the water out of her hair with sharp motions of her head. Fox, the other guard, had a contemptuous look on her face as she looked at her fellow guard.

'What were you doing messing with her, you idiot! Now, she's going to go running back to Granite and we'll be heading the same way as that Ukrainian bitch', the redhead screamed above the noise of the boat's motor, as they pulled away from the rocks. Jordan jerked the wheel of the boat out along the coast, then slowed it down as they neared the harbour.

'I don't think so' she replied, as the engine quietened, 'we'll all be too busy for her to worry about that; besides, we've been given the job of bringing over the prize specimen on Wednesday, don't forget'. The women known as Fox stared back at the blonde.

'I thought we had shipped all those frozen samples across by now. I'd heard the girls are being got ready to move, anyway'. Jordan slowed the boat right down and approached the harbour, cutting the engine and throwing the line to a waiting guard. She leaned back against the wheel, looking at her partner, a slow, cruel smile creeping across her face.

'The specimen is not an 'it', Fox; it's a 'him'. We have the pleasure of bringing one of UNCLE's finest right into the hands of our delightful doctor, and you know what, for once, he's going to do exactly as he's told'.

xxxxxxxx

Illya looked at the two bags on his bed, waiting to be closed. The larger one, a soft dark green holdall, contained his hopes for the future of his family. Next to his own clothes, lay those for two others. He had chosen the most brightly coloured of Therese's garments he could find; geometric prints, and deep pink t-shirts now jostled with his darker clothing; anything black had been avoided. And laid carefully on top, wrapped in the Ukrainian headscarf Therese had been given at their wedding, a selection of tiny, white knitted baby clothes.

He had discovered them on the day he'd returned home to find Rita in full cleaning mode, polishing the wooden floors of the ground floor rooms so that Illya skidded from one room to the other, wishing he hadn't taken off his shoes at the door. He had wandered down to the now pristine kitchen, to find Frankie sitting waiting for him, books carefully laid open for his inspection. He made his usual journey past the oven, noting something wonderful bubbling away inside, before sitting down to look at the work.

'Hey, Illya, Papa said you should have this; guess you need to stash it somewhere' Frankie said, shoving a piece of paper into his hand. Illya wondered what the connection between the list in his hands and Frank could be as he read down the typed list. It was a delivery note for furniture. Frankie started to pull him up, tugging at his jacket in her eagerness.

'They are soooo cute!' she cooed, dancing around at the same time as pulling him towards the door. 'Papa and that guy next door, you know the weirdo poet guy, they helped the delivery guys put it all upstairs, and mama has laid it out like Tess said' she gasped, as they headed for the stairs to the first floor.

'Well, I'm very grateful to you all' Illya replied, 'although your description of Mr Ginnsburg is rather harsh, don't you think, Francesca?'.

'You think so?' Frankie gasped back, from the top of the stairs, 'yeah, well, have you seen his hair? He's got like a chrome dome on top and then he does that weird thing with the rest, like a jelly roll to cover, you know . .'

'Yes, I know' Illya sighed. 'You really musn't judge people by their hairstyles; it's really not that important' he added. She looked back at him with a critical look.

'Mmm. You say that now – you wait till Tess sees you, then you'll know how important it is' Frankie replied, tossing her head and grinning back at him.

They had reached the landing outside the small green room next to their bedroom. The door was shut and Frankie stood at the threshold, with her hand on the door knob. As he came near, she put her hand over his eyes.

'Now, keep them shut till we get inside' she whispered in his ear, whilst she slowly opened the door, and drew him inside.

From a vast experience of being blindfolded, Illya could sense that there were now things in the room, and that he was standing on a rug, like a small soft island in the middle of the hard brown sea of wooden flooring. He could also sense the young girl's excitement and he was touched by it, by her enjoyment of sharing his life with Therese. She took her hand away from his face and he opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the soft light of the room.

The furniture was painted a soft cream colour; small versions of larger, adult pieces. A diminutive wardrobe stood in the corner with a small chest of drawers along the wall, the top adorned with various items needed for babies he presumed, but didn't know, had never even thought about, before this moment. On the other side of the room lay the cot, in a matching shade, its mattress already covered with delicate sheets and a soft cream blanket. And on top of the blanket, waiting to be lifted out, a smaller moses basket type crib, similarly prepared. A tiny pink rabbit looked out at Illya from the crib.

Illya gazed around, transfixed by the feeling of timeless preparedness in the room, as if it were holding its breath, relying on him to make sure that what needed to, came to pass. He noticed his hand shake slightly as he laid it on the cot side. He felt Frankie tugging his arm again, this time very gently.

'Isn't it neat?' she whispered, as if the baby were already there. 'Hey, and look in here, this is really fine' Frankie said, as she opened the wardrobe doors. The wardrobe had a narrow section with scaled down hangers holding a set of scaled down clothes; little dresses and delicate little dungarees. Then, on shelves down the side, knitted garments; jumpers and cardigans, and their matching bonnets and bootees, neatly folded. Frankie carefully pulled out a bonnet, its little ribbons unfurling on her hand as she pushed the tiny garment towards Illya.

As he took it, the image of his wife making these things appeared before him. Somehow he had not really noticed or even shown an interest in what she had been doing, and he now felt ashamed that she had created this place and all the things in it, without his help.

'She wanted it to be a surprise' Frankie continued in her stage whisper voice, ''cause she reckoned you wouldn't have the time'. Illya pursed his lips, and shook his head slightly at the thought.

'Perhaps I should have made time' he replied, gazing at the bonnet. He placed it gently on the top of the chest of drawers and began to take out a few more garments, much to Frankie's amazement. Illya shut the wardrobe door and picked up the baby clothes. He returned to the cot, and bending down, took the little pink rabbit from its hiding place.

'Don't worry' he said, walking towards the door, 'I just thought they might be needed before we get home'.

The smaller bag didn't need many things. Illya knew that whatever he carried with him would eventually be subject to search and probably destruction. He would spend one night in Palma and then proceed to the agreed meeting place with whoever Bolt sent to collect him. The other bag would be collected, as Napoleon assured him, to be sent on to Mallorca for safe keeping. It was pointless him carrying any obvious weapons. He heard the stairs being scaled two at a time as he put the baby clothes into the bag.

'Aw, can't get to sleep without bunny?'. Napoleon stood in the doorway, his head on one side and a sloppy smile illuminating his face. Illya sighed and put the bunny in the bag, zipping them both. He went over to the bedside table and drew out a letter.

'The guys in the office have a new machine that can send a facsimile, so we can get it to Sabi by tomorrow' Napoleon ventured, hoping to reassure his partner.

'So I suppose the guys in the office will be reading it as well' Illya replied glumly, thrusting the envelope into Napoleon's hand. Napoleon took it and they stood quietly in the room together for a few moments.

'Look' Napoleon began, 'just focus on Tess; that is your mission. With you as the centre of attention, it should be enough to divert the girls from minding the shop for a while. Just for a change, you don't need to worry about blowing up anything; your apprentice in the dark arts has got everything in hand. All you need to do as far as that is concerned, is to make the drop as I told you. Fernando and I will mop up, and then you and Tess can play mom and dad with the pink rabbit'. Illya turned slightly and looked out of the window.

'You're forgetting something' he murmured. 'A slight matter of where the baby is going to be born. With all that has gone on, there is a risk that it may be sooner than we think'. Illya went back to the bedside table and took out a little box; it looked like a little ring box to Napoleon. Turning round, he thrust the box into Napoleon's hand. Solo opened it, guessing already what it might contain.

'Can you look after these for me? I can't risk them being taken by Bolt's females' Illya said. In the box lay the delicate chain and Therese's wedding ring. Illya pulled the ring off his own finger and added it to the little collection. 'Just in case' he said wistfully, looking at the jewellery nestling in the box. Napoleon snapped the box shut and put in into his jacket pocket.

'Well, just think of it as an extension of my best man duties' he said, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt. 'Then you can play weddings as well as mom and dad, huh?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

The preparation rooms at La Masia were an extension of the house itself, dating from the time when it was a working farm. It was easy to imagine the scene in here at harvest time, Sabi thought; the noise of the fruit of the fields being sorted and processed. Now the rooms lay dusty and silent, agricultural implements and containers left waiting for long dead workers to return.

Sabi glanced round before walking quietly towards a large cupboard in the

corner of the room. She opened the door gingerly and could immediately see a wooden container on the highest shelf poking out. She reached up, and taking the container down, she withdrew the envelope from it and stuffed it into the pocket of her jacket.

'What are you doing here?' a voice shouted, faintly echoing among the rafters of the barn-like room; 'Granite wants to see you like yesterday'. It was the short Canadian girl with the flaming hair that Sabi nervously realised was Jordan Lawrence's partner.

'Sorry. It's an amazing room, don't you think?'. The Canadian shrugged and stood back as Sabi walked past. She could feel the envelope in her pocket and wondered if she could find Therese that morning. She pursed her lips at the thought; she could hardly ask Bolt where she was, and she wondered exactly what Bolt wanted from her.

Li-Hua Bolt was waiting for her in the large living room, standing by the immense fireplace, one black booted foot kicking at some ash in the grate of the fire. She turned as Sabi entered.

'Ah come in and sit down. I have a proposition for you'. She went over to a desk pushed against a large window and retrieved some papers.

'According to this' she said in a rather impersonal voice, 'you have performed your assigned tasks with efficiency and imagination. You also passed the test I gave you with very high scores. If you remember, you made an undertaking when you joined this organisation, that you would serve it in any way that I deemed suitable, do you remember?'. Sabi nodded, intuiting that something was about to be suggested that wasn't quite in the plan.

'On Wednesday', Bolt continued, 'we will be receiving a rather special package. This package is really, let's put it like this, shall we, a sort of special birthday present for Dr Engel'. Sabi shuddered inwardly at the mental pictures which swarmed into her mind, let alone the cold impersonal way of describing her beloved colleague as a 'package'. Bolt had obviously not finished.

'Before I give Dr Engel her present, as it were, I'd like to take a little something from our special package. As you know, the modified 'lebensborn' programme has entered its next stage, and at present, we have fifteen confirmed pregnancies of female children, due to our advanced screening programme. It's really quite a breakthrough to be able to isolate the 'female' semen as it were' she added, looking slightly more animated than usual; 'a facility our Amazonian forebears didn't have access to, no?'. She put down the papers on the desk and came to sit next to Sabi. The German agent noticed, close up, the deadness of the other woman's eyes. It was like looking into a fish's eyes on a slab in the fishmonger's shop, she thought.

'Unfortunately, due to the miscarriage of one of the producers, we find that there is a need for a replacement. As you realise, we do not have time to procure semen as we have done in the past, and luckily, our package will provide us with a high quality product with the minimum of difficulty. In fact' she added, getting up, 'the combination of your genetic materials will produce a child of the highest calibre, and we hope, the last head of UNCLE' .

Sabi swallowed, and concentrated on looking less shocked than she felt. After the affair in the Ukraine, everybody in UNCLE New York it seemed, thought that she and Illya had something going on between them, until Napoleon scotched that rumour after Kat's death. Strangely, Kat and her had discussed, in a fairly light-hearted way one evening, what it would be like to have a child, and who the father might be. Naturally, the Russian's name came up, but that was before Therese had come on the scene. Therese. Sabi blinked at the thought of how she was going to explain this to her. However, there was one certainty; in order to give Illya a fighting chance of rescuing his wife, Sabi had to remain here.

She had known that this procedure might be a possibility, of course, and had been given an injection by Bernard Shearer that should have ensured her protection. But the length of time spent on the island had resulted in the protection running out at exactly the wrong moment.

'I would be honoured to become a producer for our organisation' Sabi heard herself saying. She reasoned within herself that perhaps it wouldn't come to it in the end. Perhaps.

xxxxxx

My darling Teresita, if you are reading this, then give Sabi a hug from me, and know that we will be together very soon. I didn't realise when I saw you for the first time (do you remember?) that I would ever feel as much pain being apart from another person as I have felt without you. I hope you will forgive me for failing to protect you and our baby on the night of Napoleon's wedding. I know now that these feelings of guilt are pointless and destructive, so I will concentrate on telling you that, first of all, my love for you is unending; you are the centre of my world, ma petite fleur, and I will give everything I have for you, everything. Secondly, that I will try to be a good father to our little girl (there, you have me even believing it is to be a girl!). I will save all the other things I want to tell you until we meet, as I am afraid I must end this letter by telling you to destroy it! Don't be frightened when you see me, Tess; no doubt there will be a small degree of suffering involved in your rescue, but with your help, I'm sure we can prevail. Please keep safe, my dearest, until we are reunited. Your loving husband Illya.

The letter, in his familiar neat handwriting, somehow copied onto the thinnest of paper, lay in her hands like a delicate flower. Therese crushed it and lay on the bed with it near her face, until her tears had reduced the translucent paper to a wet lump of tissue. After a while, she got up and washed her face in the sink near to her bed. She was startled momentarily by Sabi's continued presence in the darkening room.

'I'm sorry, darling, I need to tell you something before I go, something you must know before Wednesday' Sabi said simply.

'Is it about Illya?' Therese replied anxiously. Sabi could see that she was very tired. The strain of the last months had taken most of her resolve and courage, and she now looked on the point of nervous collapse. Sabi pondered whether now was the right time to disclose the latest diabolical plan of Ms Bolt to her. Sabi sat on the bed next to Therese, putting her arm round her shoulder and drawing her towards her.

'Darling, I must go very soon, and I doubt if I will see you again before Illyusha arrives' she began. 'However, I am afraid that there is something I think you should know about. If after I have told you, you want me to, I will do everything I can to stop it happening'. Therese looked confused.

'What on earth do you mean?' she replied, looking into Sabi's face. Sabi sighed and related the events of the morning to her, without additional comment. When she had finished, Therese got up and went to the window, staring up into the sky for a while, and then looking down at the two men working in the vegetable garden and orchards surrounding the house. Something about them seemed familiar, but they were too far away for her to see them in any detail. She turned away from the window to face Sabi, her face set with the determination Sabi had seen before, when other difficulties had to be faced.

'Li is doing a wicked thing to you Sabi and to Illya' she began. 'I am sure that Illya will try to prevent it happening, but if it does, well, we'll just to have to sort it out between us, won't we?' she said, smiling gently at the anxious face of the German in front of her. Therese came over and sat facing Sabi again. 'We cannot punish the child, can we, for something evil that an adult has done to its parents?' she murmured. Sabi pulled her towards her.

'He really is the luckiest of Russians to have you, darling; make sure you tell him that, _ja_?'.

xxxxxxxx

Palma. It was a lovely city, reaching down to the sea, its long harbour, the port for regular ocean-going cruise liners, and its Cathedral dominating the skyline from the sea. Illya threw his small bag down in the hotel room and gazed out of the window at the sparkling water; one night, possibly two, and then he would see her again.

The accompanying carrier bag bore the logo of a fashionable Mallorcan shop, and to all extents and purposes, held a selection of gift wrapped purchases. Only these gifts were not what they seemed. The brightly coloured wrapping paper concealed a selection of presents for the would-be bomber, Illya thought. He hoped that he had included everything Vaz would need to complete his part of the mission, plus a few other little extras that the Indian, he was sure, could make use of. He wondered what Sabi had been able to hide on Therese, and frowned at the thought of the inherent danger of involving her in this way. Still, without a few little gadgets, it would be a uphill task for them to even have a hope of escaping.

He sat down on the bed, and drew out his communicator. He was to leave his bag in reception, and that meant this too. According to Sabi, Bolt had highly sophisticated equipment to detect anything he might have secreted on his person, and he wanted to avoid being cut open to discover anything for as long as possible. The image of Dr Engel and her scalpels flashed across his mind as he twisted the barrel. If they got the timing of this mission wrong, then there could be carnage, with him as the principal course on Dr Engel's bloodthirsty menu. He subconsciously rubbed his neck at the thought, and could just feel the raised wheals where McElroy had stubbed out his cigarette in a line. McElroy's torture sessions would be a walk in the park compared to what was ahead if she was allowed to get to work on him.

Napoleon's voice immediately interrupted his rather gloomy train of thought.

'Arrived safely, with all your gifts?' he enquired.

'Yes', Kuryakin replied tersely, 'I'm just going out now to deliver them. I don't know who thought of this drop off, but it seems hardly appropriate considering what's inside my 'gifts' as you call them'.

'Well, I thought you might welcome the cover of darkness for your Father Christmas act, comrade, and while you're there, you can even make use of the facilities'.

'Very funny. I think my confession would take far too long, bearing in mind I have a boat to catch tomorrow' Illya replied, smiling into the communicator.

'O.K. Fernando and I are en route, as it were, so hopefully, there should be a touching family reunion round about this weekend'. Illya frowned at the timescale, even though they had gone through it meticulously in New York.

'Yes, well don't hang about too long, I want to be in one piece, more or less, when you see me again' he replied.

'Don't worry. Everything will go just as we planned, right?'

'If you say so, Napoleon' Illya replied, sighing.

'Good. Take care, Solo out'.

Illya closed the communicator, returned it to his pocket and grabbed the bag. He glanced round the room and left, walking quickly down the stairs and out of the hotel into the evening sunshine. Despite it being only the end of March, it was already warm and pleasant even at this early evening hour. He headed away from the hotel towards the older part of the city, through the dark, narrow streets that gave onto the beautiful open squares for which Palma was famous. At last, he turned a corner and headed for the Cathedral.

From the port, in particular, it was an unusually shaped building, looking like a ship that had been beached far from its moorings. Illya found the west end, and entered the Cathedral at the Main Door, passing through a smaller door cut into the larger one. He glanced up at the figure above him, smiling at his improving knowledge of Catholic iconography. Our Lady Immaculate, her hands together in prayer, surrounded by various Marian symbols: Illya recognised the lily, but puzzled about the others. He plunged on, his eyes lagging behind his body as the darkness of the interior contrasted painfully with the mellow light beyond the great doors.

He turned slightly to the right and walked very slowly up the side aisle, counting the chapels as he passed them. Just before the building narrowed to form the East End, he found what he was looking for. The little side chapel was a monument to the Baroque style, with its excess of swirling, ornate forms. St Anthony of Padua, the child Jesus nestling in his arms, looked down in a lofty way towards the Russian standing there. Illya glanced round in the deep gloom, his eyes resting on the dark wood of the confessional box hidden away behind the screen on the east wall of the chapel. He had often seen these, but never thought he would enter one, for whatever reason. Now he opened the gate to the screen and walked towards the box.

The priest's side of the confessional had a half-door, rather like a stable door entrance, with the upper part covered by a dark purple curtain. Illya stepped into the other side and knelt down by the grille, placing the carrier bag carefully in the corner by his side. He was aware of a slight movement in the other side before a familiar voice was heard.

'Any sins you'd like to get off your chest before your little trip, old boy?'

'If there were, I have no intention of revealing them to you Vaz' Illya murmured. He could now just make out the familiar features through the metal grille between them. 'Your gifts from the wise men of Section 8 are awaiting you this side' he continued. 'I've added a few things which you may care to utilise, but please make sure that we're all a discreet distance away before you start playing with them, understand?'. He could almost see the glint of the Indian's white teeth the other side of the box.

'You concentrate on your knight in shining armour act, and let Uncle Vaz handle the whizzbangs' Vaz replied cheerfully. 'Then you can introduce me to Kuryakin junior when the show's over' he added. Illya smiled at the Indian's utter assimilation of the British stiff upper lip, make light of it attitude.

'Yes, well let's see how Kuryakin senior manages first before we get to that, shall we?' he replied. As he was getting up, Fernandes spoke again.

'Oh by the way, Illya, urgent message from your biggest German fan across the water, as it were, old boy. She needs to speak to you pronto about some utterly urgent issue that's come up. Wouldn't come clean about it to me at all, so do try to have a word a.s.a.p, there's a good chap' he said. Illya's brows creased with confusion at the message.

'Hmm. That might prove a little difficult to speak openly to Sabi with our former colleague lurking nearby, but I'll try'. Illya wondered what on earth was so urgent that Sabi felt she had to speak to him and risk discovery.

He got to his feet. The Cathedral was filling with people waiting for Mass to begin; Illya suddenly realised why. It was Holy Week, and on Sunday it would be Easter Day. Yet again, the events of the Passion seemed intertwined with major events in his life. He sat down at the edge of one of the long rows of pews in the huge space of the Cathedral, and put his head into his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is reunited with Therese, but will Napoleon be able to prevent his partner being altered permanently by 'Los Hermanas malas?

The little harbour was a stark contrast to Palma, but Illya decided that he liked them both. Before Therese, Mallorca might have been well down his list of places to visit or even go on holiday to, but now the island gripped his heart as she did. As he walked down the road towards the harbour, he wondered if Tess had received his letter, and if it had helped her. He tried to imagine her as she looked now, but it proved impossible; he just couldn't erase the long ponytail from his images of her, and part of him slightly dreaded what he might see. He could instantly hear himself telling Frankie that hairstyles weren't important. He ran his hand through his growing, but still very short, hair, and hoped she would think that was true too.

From a distance, Illya could see the boat moored at the harbour, the Bolt logo stencilled on the side of the powerful vessel. He swore under his breath in Russian as he saw who was standing on the deck. Jordan Lawrence was scanning the horizon with field binoculars, making a circular sweep of the roads coming down to the little port. He stopped, and stood there for the few moments it took her to get him in her sights. She paused, and then Illya could see her adjusting the binoculars to get a clearer view of him. For a second, he almost felt like waving, as if he needed to attract her attention. They both stood like this for what seemed a long time to Illya, but were merely seconds, before she put the binoculars down, and he continued to walk towards her.

As he came nearer, he saw her gesticulating to another person who was invisible to Illya, and then draw something from her back. It was hard to keep on walking, with no cover or means of defending himself, but Illya continued without hesitation, the boat growing in size and menace as he approached. He could see her quite clearly now. She was stood at the back of the boat, where she had jumped down to, when she had first seen him. She had the genderless appearance of the other Bolt guards, but she hadn't lost the sneer which had habitually adorned her face when she had lived in their house. No doubt Bolt had chosen her as a double insult to Kuryakin; a turned agent to escort a captured agent. Perfect.

As he reached the boat, he was aware of the other girls. A redhead was standing now where Jordan had stood before, at the top of the boat, aiming a sub-machine gun in his direction; he could just see another girl at the wheel. As if to complete the quartet, another figure emerged from inside. Illya sighed. She obviously couldn't wait for her birthday present to come to her – she had come to him. Dr Winnifred Engel, minus her white coat for once, stood waiting, her arms folded over her rather shapeless dark blue trouser suit, her spectacles catching the evening sun. Illya was surprised that Elena hadn't come along for the ride too. No doubt she would be among the welcoming party at the island.

He slowly raised his arms as Jordan approached, her pistol raised.

'Well, good evening Illya, care to come aboard?' Jordan sneered, giving him a strange, almost sensual glance up and down.

'No, I can't say I do,' he replied, stepping forward, making sure she didn't get near enough to be able to do anything nasty with the butt of her gun. She motioned him forward towards the interior of the vessel, past the silent figure of the Nazi surgeon. He could hear the other girl jumping down from the roof of the boat, and the third one, a very thin, tall girl with black hair, starting the engine.

The interior of the boat was well appointed; it was obviously not the usual one used to patrol the island. They clambered down some steep steps to the lower deck, opulently fitted out in cream leather and a rich, light wood. Illya raised his eyebrows at the sight of it.

'Yes, you're honoured. This is Granite's own boat, Illya, sent over for a special package' Jordan continued to sneer. Her attitude was getting on his nerves, together with the ludicrous alternative names they all called themselves. He could see that the door at the end of this room led to a bedroom; he guessed what was coming next. Dr Engel's feet appeared, followed by the rest of her in due course, with the redhead clattering down in quick succession. Jordan handed her colleague the pistol and turned towards Illya. He looked towards the bedroom.

'In here?' he said, sighing. The room was quite large for a boat, and the girls were able to stand either side of him at the end of the large double bed, with ease. Without speaking, he began to take his clothes off.

'We don't want a repeat of the farce in East Berlin, do we Doctor; this time, I'm here to make sure you do as you are told, Kuryakin' Jordan said sharply. Illya shrugged, and continued removing his clothes. In his vest and underpants, he sat down, removed his shoes and socks and put them neatly with the rest of his clothes. 'Carry on' Jordan ordered, 'just in case you might be hiding something. Don't forget I know all about your little UNCLE tricks, Illyusha'. Illya cringed at her mocking use of his diminutive; her abhorrence of him was almost palpable, he thought. He turned his back to her, and slowly removed the rest of his clothing.

As he straightened up, Jordan pushed him hard onto the bed. She looked down at him lying prone on top of the white sheets, a criss-cross of recent scars and marks scattered across his body.

'Somebody's made quite a mess of you' she whispered in his ear; 'still, it won't matter soon, will it?'. Illya forced himself not to turn and punch her sneering face. He felt the hard coldness of a pistol against his temple. 'Move over to the edge, Mr Kuryakin' Jordan continued, 'Dr Engel just wants to make sure there are no little gadgets stuck in you somewhere'. Illya slowly moved to the edge of the bed, trying to keep his legs together without success. He felt the gun at his ankle, slowly running up his leg, then pushing into his testicles. He pushed his head into the sheets, forcing himself not to react to her, not to give her any reason to hurt him.

'I don't have anything hidden in there, I can assure you', Illya said, twisting his head to the side.

'Oh, but you have, Illya. That's where your special gift is being kept nice and cool, surely?' she whispered acidly, really close to his head.

Jordan stood up and took the gun away, as a new pair of hands began to explore his body.

'And make sure you stay perfectly still this time, Mr Kuryakin, otherwise . .'

'Otherwise what, Jordan? You'll kill me?' Illya replied savagely. 'I can't imagine that your leader will be grateful to you for damaging the prize package before it is even delivered, isn't that right, Doctor?' he added, wriggling under the hands of Dr Engel as she poked and prodded him.

'Quite so, Mr Kuryakin' Dr Engel murmured, 'we are going to spend a lot of time together, _nicht wahr_?. Her grip on his arm suddenly tightened, making him wince slightly. The voice became hard and cold. 'Now, turn over, if you don't mind, and this time without the accompanying violence, Mr Kuryakin, otherwise I will be forced to begin a few investigations here, rather than in the comfort of my own laboratory. After all, we don't want any unfortunate stains do we?'. Illya grimaced and turned over. He could see the expressions of all the women clearly.

'Mm. Impressive. I can see why Storm wants you back so much' Jordan sniggered. The other girl, the redhead, came over and suddenly grabbed his penis, with the inevitable reaction. Illya closed his eyes and tried to relax, trying to think of anything which would take his mind off what was going on in the room. He had waited a long time for this to happen he thought, but not with her.

'No, Fox. Don't want to waste any of the precious cargo, do we? Jordan said sarcastically. The girl called Fox let go, leaning towards him, her green eyes slits in her rather expressionless face. 'Granite's chosen a really good producer for you' she drawled, in rather a strong French Canadian accent; 'actually she looks a bit like you, you know, master race stuff; blonde hair, blue eyes; but unlike you, she's the real deal, one of the real ' _master race''_.

Illya tried to keep his face as still as he could as the implication of her words sunk in. He now didn't need to speak to Sabi; the guard had delivered the message clearly. His head sunk slightly onto his chest, his eyes closing with effort of thinking about what had been said. He thought of Napoleon only last night assuring him that all would go to plan. Obviously, this part of the plan hadn't quite been reckoned on.

From what was already happening, they were obviously going to take no chances with him. Presumably he would be given some clothes to wear when they had eventually tired of squeezing and prodding him like a giant rubber ball, but he could hardly imagine they would allow him to just walk off the boat unrestricted.

'Get up' Jordan was shouting from the other side of the room. Some clothes were flung at him, and he began to get dressed; Engel had left the room momentarily, but Jordan and the girl called Fox remained; he was obviously not going to be left alone at all. Illya sat up and started to put on the underwear, then, predictably, a pair of black jeans, a black long-sleeved t-shirt and some black gym shoes. He began to wonder if even he might give black a rest for a while.

Just as he finished putting on the shoes, Dr Engel returned, brandishing a syringe filled with an evil looking green liquid. The two guards were by his side in seconds. They yanked him off the bed and onto a chair which had been placed conveniently near, forcing up the sleeve of his t-shirt, then pinning his arms down to the harder ones of the chair beneath him.

'Now, Mr Kuryakin, I do hope you won't struggle' Dr Engel said. 'This is something I just discovered accidentally as a by-product of my work on the brain. 'With my other subjects, the effects have not been long-lasting, but one never knows, does one, how it will be with different subjects'.

'May I ask what the effects are going to be?' Illya asked, trying not to sound too worried. Dr Engel rubbed his inner arm with some surgical spirit, and then slid the needle into his vein.

'Well Mr Kuryakin, we need to make sure that you won't try anything foolish like trying to escape, particularly with Granite's baby, _ja_? _So_ ' she said, in a particularly teutonic accent, 'you'll soon _see_ the effect of the injection, I am sure', a cruel smile creeping across her face.

As she drew the needle out of his arm, he automatically tried to get up, although afterwards, he didn't know why. A black wave of dizziness hit him like a sledgehammer; the room appeared to spin round and away from him, the women's faces caught in its vortex in his strange contorted world. He could feel their arms welded onto his own, pushing him onto the bed, the dizziness causing the bed to feel as if it had risen to meet him, rather than him having flopped onto its soft whiteness. Whiteness rapidly faded to blackness then, as his body finally succumbed to the effects of the drug.

'Oh , poor Illya' Jordan spat in his ear, 'that should stop you wandering off now, shouldn't it?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

''Stella Maris', there she is', Fernando shouted cheerfully, waving to a man with skin rather like a cured tobacco leaf, who stood on board the small vessel. Napoleon walked along behind him, humping his own diving equipment, and feeling slightly disgruntled. _Illya would have loved this_ he thought to himself, watching the younger agent throwing his own equipment on board and then jumping in rather joyously to greet his old friend.

'Juni, this is Napoleon; Napoleon, meet Junipero, master of this fair craft' Fernando continued in the same, rather jolly way. Napoleon imagined what it was going to be like when Fernando and Vaz got together; he hoped Illya would be there by then to translate for him. _Illya._ He looked at his watch. By now, the Russian would be reaching the island, and what Napoleon imagined would be a special Bolt reception party. Kuryakin's naturally taciturn manner had been apparent when they had last talked, when Napoleon had tried to assure him that all would go according to plan. Somehow, though, they both knew this didn't usually quite happen. But the Russian was now in a far more dangerous place than he, and with evil, unpredictable enemies around him.

On cue, his communicator began to sound.

'Ah, Mr Solo, anything to report? I thought I would check before you reach the island, as it were, when communications might be a trifle difficult' Waverly said, in typical understatement.

'Er, well, Sir, everything is going according to plan as far as I know. Mr Kuryakin successfully made the drop and I presume is now about to land. Apparently Ms Bolt sent her own boat to fetch him, with, so Mr Fernandes says, Miss Lawrence on board'. Waverly exhaled deeply.

'Yes, well that would be her style, I imagine. I can't think that they will do anything with Mr Kuryakin this evening, but please don't hang around too long, Mr Solo before you effect your back-up strategy will you? Oh, by the way' he added, 'have you tested the communication with Mr Kuryakin? It's rather important if you're not to leave it too late, or even have any idea of what is going on at that place, don't you think?'

'Um, yes, I mean no, I haven't tried it yet, sir. I thought I might wait until later, when I guess he'll be held on his own somewhere, and I'll be on the island, so I can test it's effectiveness there against the communication dampener, which, according to Sabi, has been strengthened this week to exclude routing calls via Palma'.

'Quite so. Well, look after Mr McCaffery, won't you, and as soon as that damn dampener is taken out of commission, perhaps you might like to let me know how the mission is progressing. Waverly out'.

Fernando was laying out the scuba equipment on the benches either side of the wheelhouse. He looked up when Solo had finished speaking.

'How're you going to talk to him? I thought he left all his stuff behind in the hotel?' he asked, his brown eyes quizzically gazing at Napoleon.

'Remember his visit to the dentist last week?'. Who could forget it? A smile came to Napoleon's face at the thought of the Russian, rubbing his jaw in the Commissary and moaning about 'a perfectly good Soviet filling that had to be removed and replaced with this', opening his mouth and insisting on showing Napoleon the rather sore looking gum over which the new 'filling' had been cemented in place. 'Anyway,' Napoleon continued, 'that 'filling' is a development we made after a mission when this girl had a tooth that received radio waves. Luckily, or unluckily for Illya, depending on how you see it, he doesn't have to drink rum to make it work'.

Fernando's brows contracted at the story.

'So, how does it work?' He said. Napoleon shrugged.

'Don't ask me about the details. All I know is that it is tuned to my frequency, I can speak to him via this' he continued, pointing to his communicator, 'and he can hear me, and respond by just talking. However, he needs to be careful, otherwise we don't want an 'outside broadcast' if his mouth happens to be open at the wrong time' he added.

'Neat' Fernando replied, laughing at the thought of Napoleon's voice coming out of Illya's mouth. 'That could be ultra-embarrassing if he's, you know, _with_ my sister, and you kind of 'burst in' on . .'

'I get the drift' Napoleon replied. He had definitely been spending too much

time with Americans.

The boat, surprisingly powerful for something, which to Napoleon looked rather ancient, powered away from the harbour, rapidly fading from view in the soft dusk . Once the course was set, they sat down opposite each other on the benches to discuss the strategy for reaching safe haven without alerting the Amazonian forces of Ms Bolt.

'When we get near the island' Junipero began rather abruptly, speaking in Spanish, rather than his preferred Catalan for Napoleon's benefit, 'I will cut the engines. It will not be long before we receive a visit from ' _Las hermanas'_. Fernando smiled.

'No, Juni, not 'the sisters'; they're in the Convent. You'll have to give them another name' he said.

' _Las hermanas malas'_ Junipero replied.

' _Evil sisters. Perfect'_ Napoleon thought. Junipero continued to outline the plan, seemingly able to guide the boat and look at the two agents at the same time. While the 'evil sisters' would be investigating the boat's engine with Junipero, Napoleon and Fernando had to make their getaway. It was crucial that they were in the water by the time the guards were boarding Juni's vessel. Then all they had to do, was to scale the cliffs below the Convent, without being seen of course, and they were there. Napoleon frowned. He had to hope that Fernando realised that this was a little more serious than a scene from 'The Guns of Navarone'; besides which he positively disliked all that underwater stuff that the Russian loved so much.

'O.K. Napoleon?' Fernando asked, making a final check of the scuba gear. Solo nodded. He wondered why he was fretting about it so much; after all, McCaffery had virtually been brought up round these islands, and diving must come as second nature to him. He decided it was must be one thing that was making him so cranky; he was either missing his wife, which he was, though he wouldn't admit this to Fernando, or he was missing his partner, or both. He thought both.

Fernando began scrabbling around in a cupboard at the side of the wheelhouse, coming out with some food for them, before it got too near to the dive to consider eating at all. The _tapas_ Junipero had provided were a perfect refreshment before the rigours of the evening began. Yet again, Napoleon consulted his watch and gazed across the comparatively still Mediterranean water towards the island, thinking of his partner. He was sure that the little feast of olives, almonds and fresh anchovies, or anything like it, would not be served to the Russian that night. Napoleon wondered whether he dared try the frequency that should connect him to Illya via his tooth. He twiddled with his communicator, noticing that Fernando was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

'I think it's too early to talk to him yet. Why don't you wait till we're on the island, before the climb?' he ventured. It seemed then, that all the McCafferys had some kind of intuitive sense, Napoleon thought. He sighed and looked out into the darkening water, his mood matching it.

Xxxx

The dull thudding of the boat's side on the dock woke Illya from the absolute blackness of what he imagined was a drug-induced sleep. He slowly opened his eyes, his head still spinning faintly and refusing to stop. Strangely, even bearing in mind it must be night by now, it seemed so dark that he couldn't see at all. As he sat up he realised. Although it must be night, the darkness came not from the outside, but from inside his head. He was completely blind.

He took several long, deep breaths to calm himself, before carefully moving to the edge of the bed. This wasn't the first time he'd done this sort of thing, he reasoned with himself, only that before, he'd been wearing something that he knew could, in theory at least, be taken off at any time. Illya had a more or less photographic memory, so that an image of the room came to him fairly easily. He stood up and moved slowly towards what he was certain was the door. He felt for the handle and slowly pushed down, pulling the door towards him. Before he could react to the fact that his senses were telling him someone was there, the door was violently shoved towards him, hitting Illya a glancing blow on his face as he lost balance and fell backwards onto the bed.

'Going somewhere?'. Jordan's voice filled the room, her grating, sarcastic tones biting into the blackness. Illya struggled to get up again, flailing around to regain his balance, only to be dragged forwards and up by two pairs of unseen, rough hands. 'Get them on; you think he's safe like this?' he heard her snarl, in a low, animal growl, to the other guard. He felt his arms stretched out as the cold, hard metal rings were clamped round his wrists, and he was dragged forward and through the door towards the stairs.

'Stop' Illya said, forcing the two women to come to a halt by the sound of his voice. 'I can assure you, that I am going nowhere like this, but I would prefer to walk, rather than be dragged' he added quietly. There was a slight hiatus before another voice was heard above them.

'Please don't damage him, _mädchen_ , he needs to be kept intact, _bitte'._ Illya smiled at the intervention of the Nazi doctor. It was ironic that she should be protecting him from being 'damaged' as she had put it, by the two guards. He was sure they hadn't appreciated her referring to them as 'girls' either, but whatever they felt, her intervention was timely. The dragging ceased, and he was guided up the stairs a little more gently.

Having lost his sight, Illya's other senses felt heightened, his hearing and smell acute: the smell and sound of the water smacking against the harbour wall; the crunch of the gravel underneath his shoes; and most of all, the feeling of animal malice emanating from Jordan Lawrence, as she marched him up the road towards the waiting jeep. As the vehicle's movement jerked him from side to side, his only comfort was that with every minute, every second, he was drawing closer to Therese.

If he imagined that he was going to meet either his wife or Li-Hua Bolt that evening, he was destined to be disappointed. Dr Engel had obviously found her way home a different way, and the 'girls' continued to be his sole companions. After a relatively short drive, the vehicle skidded to a halt, and he was dragged out, rather more roughly now, since his protector was no longer there. There seemed very little point in saying anything, Illya thought; it was unlikely that Jordan would offer anything that would help him to orientate himself. At last, after a short walk along another gravel path, which Illya guessed must be in the grounds of the farmhouse, he heard a door being opened, and he was unceremoniously shoved inside.

The room they were in smelt strange; a distinct, animal aroma invaded his senses. The floor felt hard beneath his feet, but not smooth; rough tiles or bricks he thought. It was not a large room he was certain , and he was sure there was no-one else there.

'Welcome to your accommodation, Illya dear. Very suitable for, what did Dr Engel call him . .?' Jordan said, her voice sharp with sarcasm, 'oh yes, _Russich swein'_ that's it'. Then he realised. It was some kind of stable, hence the animal smell. Or even, as Jordan had so unsubtly hinted, a pigsty. A pigsty for a Russian swine. Before he could collect his thoughts further, she gave him a hefty shove forwards. He stumbled, then fell headlong, landing in something soft and scratchy. Straw.

'Oh, and Illya . .' he heard Jordan say, as he struggled to sit up, 'don't bother to ask for the rest room, will you? I'm sure you know what pigs do when they need to, well, you know'. The door clanged shut, bolts were shot, and he heard the two women laughing as they crunched up the path. A loud, mocking laughter.

Xxxxxx

They could see the lights coming towards them very clearly now, the waves making the light seem to hiccup over the cold black space between them. Fernando was already halfway over the side of the boat on the starboard side, and Napoleon watched his flippered feet disappear backwards, as he turned to signal to Juni. The Mallorcan nodded silently, and leaned across the wheel, waiting for the patrol boat to come to beside him.

Solo rammed his oxygen mouthpiece in place, and brought his mask over his face, as he flipped himself overboard and plunged headlong into the water. Despite the wetsuit, Napoleon always found the shock of the cold water unpleasant, and welcomed seeing the Russian's blue eyes guiding him on, the blonde hair usually swirling above his head like a strange sea anemone. But tonight, it was a different brother-in-law that beckoned, his curly head lit up by Napoleon's torch, as they clung to the hull of the boat, then plunged deeper and farther away.

Fernando had strapped his torch to his arm, so providing a clear beacon of light for Solo to follow. He concentrated on following the youngest McCaffery, pushing back worries about how Junipero might be faring, to the back of his mind. Fernando had assured him that he had dealt with ' _Las Hermanas malas'_ on many occasions, and the superficial, rather antiquated appearance of his boat would help to persuade them that it had indeed ground to a halt through age rather than interference.

It was fortunate for them that the night was cloudy, but relatively still for this invariably windy island. Nevertheless, Napoleon was relieved to feel and see the sea bed rising up to them as they neared the cove which swept round the north part of the island. He felt Fernando's strong hand pulling him out of the water, and they both staggered up the beach into the lea of an overhanging rock formation below the main cliffs. Napoleon pulled out his mouthpiece and removed his mask, throwing himself back against the cliffs.

'O.K?' Fernando asked, as he started to clamber out of his diving gear. The swim didn't seem to have tired him at all, and he was soon returning with a dark box which he had retrieved from one of the small caves at the edge of the narrow beach. Napoleon hauled himself up, and dragged off his wet suit, gladly exchanging it for the warmer, and more comfortable clothes Fernando handed to him. When he was changed, he hunted round for his communicator as Fernando busied himself with stashing the now unwanted diving equipment.

For the umpteenth time that evening, he consulted his watch. Surely now he would be alone. It was unfortunate that this device was rather one-sided, Napoleon thought; there was no way in which Illya could try to contact him. He shrugged. Still, it was better than nothing. He twisted the barrel to the unique frequency, and called his partner's name.

'Illya. Are you there?'. There was silence for what felt like a very long time, before anything happened.

'Yes. I'm 'there', I suppose, depending on where you think 'there' is'. Napoleon smiled. At least he sounded as if he was still in one piece, sardonic sense of humour intact. There was a pause. 'I presume', Illya continued, 'that you and our brother-in-law have landed, as it were'.

'Yes, we're at the bottom of the cliffs, about to start the climb. I hope the girls didn't give you too rough a time. Did you notice anything on the way to the house?' There was another long pause; Napoleon frowned. He was definitely not telling him something, yet.

'Um, no, it was only moderately unpleasant, mainly due to the charming personality of our former colleague and her lovely companions' Illya replied. Napoleon grunted at the thought of Jordan being involved.

'So what aren't you telling me, comrade?'. He may as well come out with it, as the Russian was becoming more obtuse by the second. He could see Fernando staring at him, also, it seemed, wondering just what was going on the other end.

'Er, well there are one or two things that haven't quite gone to plan, that is _your_ plan, Napoleon. First of all, you must try to get Sabi out of here as soon as you can. Ms Bolt has something in mind for her that I would rather she doesn't have to go through, if you see what I mean'. Napoleon scratched his head.

'No, Illya, I don't see what you mean. To take Sabi out would be difficult and that would mean leaving you and Therese to somehow escape without help, which I think is highly unlikely bordering on impossible. Remember, you need to get clear of the house before the Indian boy wonder and his Spanish assistant get stuck in with your bag of tricks' Napoleon replied. 'So, what's the problem?'. Another long dark pause ensued. Fernando began to tap his watch, looking anxiously up at the dark face of the cliffs above. He had already been scouting round the bottom, and had found the securely attached ropes for them to climb.

'Um, well . . if you remember the original reason why we are all in this mess, namely Ms Bolt's wish to run the world with her modified female world leaders? Apparently, she slightly miscalculated the number required for total world domination, it appears, and of course she is very anxious to provide a future UNCLE head, as we know'. Napoleon's gut began to churn slightly as his brain leapt ahead of the Russian's explanation. 'So, it appears she requires one more high quality sample from a male, and . .'

'one high quality female to produce the goods' Napoleon finished. 'I get the idea' he added, then hesitated for a brief moment. 'I can see that puts you both in a very difficult situation, but . .'

'There's nothing you can do about it' Illya replied. Napoleon waited, despite Fernando's growing impatience. He knew there was still something else, something as bad as the information Illya had already shared, although he couldn't think that anything could be that bad. 'Um', the Russian started up again, 'then there's the small problem I'm having. I'm afraid I haven't been able to do any sort of reconnoitring of the area, due to the fact that Dr Engel has given me an early taste of the fruits of her research'. Napoleon stood up, suddenly unaware of Fernando, the cliff or anything else around him.

'What do you mean?'.

'She gave me something on the boat which apparently is experimental. I don't think they're quite ready to put it on the market yet. I'm afraid that I can't see anything at present' he said, rather softly.

'What d'you mean, you can't see anything?' Napoleon insisted, knowing exactly what he meant but just needing him to somehow confirm his worst fears.

'You know what I mean. I am totally blind, Napoleon. I'm within touching distance of Tess, but as far as being able to help myself or her, I may as well be a million miles away'.

Xxxxx

A faint light could just be seen, swinging to and fro, illuminating the jagged edges of the cliffs above them and making them appear somehow more menacing. Napoleon glanced across at Fernando, who was a couple of feet to his side and above him, nimbly scrambling from rock to crevice, occasionally turning and looking down at his partner below him. Napoleon, already digesting the implications of Illya's message, was suddenly reminded of his real partner. A choking sensation caused his chest to ache beyond that of exertion. He could picture Kuryakin on the cliff face, as they had been on numerous occasions, his pale face also looking down at Napoleon, sometimes grinning with the exhilaration the Russian often felt when climbing. By the time they were nearing the top, Napoleon had made up his mind, or nearly made up his mind what he should do. He had already felt powerless in this mission; he was not going to stand by and let his partner be led to the slaughter by those witches down there.

The images of the women flashed into his mind as he heaved himself up the last part of the cliffs. Jordan Lawrence, a blonde, true, but hard and cold; so different to the German blonde who now found herself in so much danger. Elena Fedorenko; where was she now? He thought of her the last time he had seen her, in the corridor at the mine, looking for her man. Then, Dr Engel. The thought of what havoc she might wreak on his partner turned his stomach. Completely insane people like her were some of the most dangerous enemies they had had to face; irrational, merciless, without any sense of morality or shred of humanity for their victim. She had been nursing an irrational hatred of Kuryakin since he had attacked her at the prison in East Germany; she had had a long time to plan her revenge. And Finally, Miss Bolt, certainly the cleverest of the quartet, and perhaps the woman who most personified evil amongst them. The others, in a sense, were following orders; she was the leader, the originator of this whole bizarre scheme.

Napoleon found Bolt's Amazonian, asexual thinking, personally deeply repugnant. Since being aware of the difference in the sexes, he had rejoiced in it; his friendships with other men, in particular Illya, had been satisfying and long-lasting, whilst the opposite sex had provided him with what felt like a never-ending source of both physical pleasure, and joy in their presence. Being married, far from being the tie he had persuaded himself it must be, had been the beginning of a whole new world. A picture of Jo rushed into his mind, erasing the other four women instantly, and at once filling his heart with joy and pain. While he very much wanted to help Illya rescue Therese, the imminent birth filled him with a sense of loss and sadness for himself and his wife. He wondered if she also would be hiding these same feelings when the baby was presented to its uncle and aunt.

For the time being, these thoughts had to be shoved down into his subconscious, as the light was getting very near, and Napoleon could see a dark figure lit up in its wake at the top of the cliff. Fernando had already reached the top, and was hauling his rope upwards, winding it into a great coil round his arm. Napoleon could see him chatting to the illuminated figure, now easily recognisable as a nun, her cloak, whipped by the night wind, streaming out behind her like a black sail against the moonlit sky. Fernando ran to the edge and helped haul Napoleon up and over. He stumbled slightly, before picking himself up and getting his breath back from the climb.

Fernando gently took the rope from him, giving him a chance to speak to what he assumed was the former UNCLE agent, and now religious, Sr Catherine. She was tall, practically his height, with a cheerful, open face. He felt she was appraising him, none the less, in a shrewd way that reminded him of the way Illya would look at people and then make some incisive comment about them.

'A good climb, Mr Solo' she began, a faint smile on her face. 'but you look pretty fit, I can see'. Somehow, the way she said _fit_ sounded most un-nun like, Napoleon thought. He liked her for it. 'Obviously' she said, as they started to walk away from the cliff towards the Abbey, 'you can't stay with us girls, but there's plenty of room at our Chaplain's house, if you're happy with our basic hospitality'. Napoleon nodded.

'It's very kind of you to get involved, but I am concerned that your community will be dragged into this if they discover you are harbouring 'the enemy' as it were' he replied. They were reaching the walls of the convent now; Napoleon could see the tower of the convent church standing silently in the moonlight, waiting to ring out in defiance, it seemed, of what was being perpetrated elsewhere on this island.

'Don't worry about us' she said, 'you need to help your partner and his wife. Take it from me, it will need all of us, in whatever role we are to play, to overcome the forces of evil in that place'. Her face took on a sombre expression as she spoke, her eyes looking steadily into his. 'I am concerned about Therese Kuryakin' she continued. 'You need to factor into your rescue plan that their baby could be born at any time now, particularly with the incredible stress that she must have suffered at that woman's hands. Unfortunately, she was not allowed to visit the convent, but, through your very brave colleague's actions, we've been able to support her at least a little'. Napoleon frowned, wondering what she meant. Sr Catherine laughed softly, relieving the stress somewhat. 'Only spiritual support, I'm afraid, Mr Solo, but that's our job. Now, you need to concentrate on yours'.

Xxxxx

From the number of meals he had eaten alone, it was possible to work out what day it was, and roughly the time of day, even if he hadn't had Napoleon telling him at regular intervals. He had woken up the morning after arriving, rather stiff from sleeping on the straw, but more or less intact, he felt. The meals had been shoved into the pigsty room unceremoniously, the door slamming shut and the bolts shot with alarming speed. He had felt his way to the food, which was basic, bordering on prison rations, and devoured it quickly, before anyone changed their mind and took it away from him.

The device in his mouth was working pretty well, and he could hear Napoleon quite clearly, even with his mouth shut, which was as well, considering that he managed to transmit practically every time the food was being delivered. It was a relief to know that the two agents had scaled the cliffs and were now safely in the Priest's house at the Convent. Illya allowed himself a wry smile at the thought of his partner stuck in a priest's house in a convent. Not really Napoleon's style, he thought, but probably a lot more comfortable than his own present accommodation.

Napoleon had wanted to rush down to 'La Masia' to, as he said 'give you some support' but Illya had vetoed it immediately.

'There is absolutely no point in you ending up a prisoner as well' he had said, talking in the emptiness of the room, 'you are very near, near enough to make a heroic rescue attempt if I need you to. We don't want to panic Miss Bolt into making an abrupt exit, with my wife and baby in tow'. At the sound of the word 'baby' Napoleon winced. He was glad the Russian couldn't see him and pick up on it. Despite Solo's constant nanny-like worrying, Illya was comforted by the sound of the familiar voice playing like a personal radio in his head, particularly when he was lacking another sense. He wished it had been the sense of smell, he thought, as the inevitable reek of being imprisoned in a place like this with no bathroom facilities hit him, making his stomach turn slightly.

From the sound of the cockerel nearby, it must be early morning, Illya thought. The second morning he had spent here, and yet still without seeing Therese, not that he could actually see her at the moment, even if he was allowed to. He slowly opened his eyes, expecting the opacity which he had endured for the previous day and a half.

At first it was the same, a total darkness. Breakfast was delivered, rather early he thought, and then comparative silence was regained. As if on cue, radio Napoleon began to broadcast.

'Illya? Still inhabiting the high class accommodation provided for you by your charming hosts?'. There was the usual silence that Napoleon was used to, but this time it seemed a little longer. Napoleon waited patiently, trying not to say his partner's name again so many times. He heard a short gasp, then the Russian was speaking, rather fast.

'Napoleon. I do believe . . . I can . . .I'm beginning to . . .see!'.

'Are you sure?'. Illya scratched his head, smiling at the slightly asinine comment.

'Would you like me to describe my luxurious surroundings. Mm . . where shall I start? In the corner, there is a mound of …'

'Fine. I believe you, comrade' Napoleon quickly replied, a faint grin starting to illumine his face. He could see Fernando, lying in the narrow bed on the other side of the room, staring, then sitting up in response to the look on his new partner's face. Napoleon leaned back against the wall of the simple monastic room they were occupying. At least now his partner could see what was going to happen, even if he couldn't control it. 'Listen Illya' he continued, 'Fernando and I are going to trek down your way today, to hook up with our friends close at hand. We'll be working on the evacuation of the expectant ladies, unless we hear something unpleasant coming out of your mouth; in that case expect some support '.

Illya frowned. It was going to be difficult to alert Napoleon to imminent danger either to himself or others, when the communication was so one-sided, unless Sabi were there. Even if she was, it might be far too late for Napoleon to effect a rescue even if he was relatively close at hand.

'Napoleon, I am grateful for your concern, but you must concentrate on your end of the mission and leave me to do my job. I have Sabi to help me if I get into any unfortunate situations with my favourite doctor, and you really have enough to do, do you not, with getting the ladies to safety'. He smiled at the thought of Napoleon trying to shepherd what must be at least fifteen pregnant women out of their quarters and onto a boat before the inevitable explosions began to happen.

'Perhaps' Napoleon replied, 'but I have a bad feeling that your job might prove to be potentially more difficult, particularly since we have no idea, or almost no idea what is being cooked up for you, we don't know even if she will let you see Therese, and there is still the constant threat that our former colleague might just bump into our present colleague with the ensuing shit hitting the fan'.

Illya lay back in what remained of his straw bed and looked at the ceiling of the pigsty, now rapidly coming into focus as his eyes shook off the effects of the drug.

'Well, . . . .' he stopped in mid-sentence as he heard the locks on the outside of the door being undone. 'I have visitors, so you many find out the plans for my day if you keep listening in' he whispered, as the door was thrown open, and sunlight flooded the room.

CHAPTER 14

'Are you sure he's alright?' Therese asked, breaking off from packing the little bag that Sabi had given her. Sabi stood by the door, glancing down the corridor from the crack left open, and then back to the English girl making a neat pile of the tiny garments she had made on the bed in front of her.

'I haven't seen him darling, because your former guard seems to have been assigned to continue her former duties as it were' Sabi replied, 'but I heard that Dr Engel has given him some sort of drug to make him 'easier to handle' so they said'. Therese tugged at her short curly hair in frustration.

'Li has told me to meet her in the sitting room at two o'clock'. She wandered over to the window as she spoke, looking down towards the outbuildings and sheds that had housed the farm animals in former years. For the past few days she had been restricted to her room, or escorted to the clinic for examination by Engel. It was obvious that something was happening; Sabi had not been able to speak to her, and there seemed to be an increasing number of guards moving packages from building to building within the grounds of the farmhouse. She had even caught sight of the other girls who the guards referred to as 'the producers'. None of them looked beyond the early stages of pregnancy, but without exception they all seemed drawn and unhappy, huddling together like a flock of birds in the spring sunshine as they walked from the clinic back to their quarters. She wondered where the children were; were they also being hidden somewhere, or, more depressingly, were none of the twenty or so that had been kidnapped, still alive?

Therese had tried in vain to obtain any information from Li-Hua Bolt about Illya, beyond vague suggestions that there would be a meeting before she and Bolt left the island. She had put the clothes with their hidden devices at the back of the armoire to escape accidental detection by anyone who might happen to look when she was out of the room. Now she knew that he was here, Sabi had told her, but when she was to see him, and if they would be allowed any time together alone, was anyone's guess.

She was suddenly aware of two guards, standing outside one of the sheds, fiddling with the lock. They swung the door open and disappeared inside, at the same time as Therese finally realised who one of them was.

'Jordan is down there going into that shed' she said urgently to Sabi, who leapt off the bed and ran to the window, squeezing herself next to Therese's bump in the narrow space where window stood between the armoire and the sink. They were in time to see the occupant of the shed being brought out. Therese threw open the windows, and leant out to get a better view, in time to see the unmistakeable blond head turn towards her.

Illya was blinded again, but only momentarily this time, by the glare of the morning sun. He blinked wildly, unable to use his shackled hands to protect his eyes from the savage light. The sharp sound of a window frame creaking made him glance upwards as the two guards began to pull him along the gravel path. He stopped, digging his heels in to bring them to a temporary halt, so that he could focus on the window.

She was almost hanging out of the window opening, the slight wind blowing the unruly curls about her head. Even from this distance, he could see her anguished expression, the look of yearning washing across it, until some unseen hand dragged her back from the window, and other hands yanked him round and forced him along the path away from the house. As he was dragged away, an unmistakeable cry echoed from the house, carried towards him, then faded away, replaced by the crunching and crashing of the guards' feet on the gravel path.

Therese turned away from the window and fell into Sabi's arms, crushed by the sight of the person she had thought about at every waking moment since she had found herself here on the night of Napoleon and Jo's wedding. Sabi gently laid her onto the bed, stroking back the wild hair from the sobbing face. She could feel the piece of paper in her jacket pocket with the message she had dreaded written down, and which she now felt she must share with Therese.

'Tess; listen, darling, I have to go. I have a feeling that I will be heading for the same place as Illyusha, if this is anything to go by' she whispered. She drew out the paper and sat with her arm round Therese's shoulders. It seemed the ultimate cruelty to be sharing this now, but Sabi had made the decision when all this began, that she would not hide anything from her. She unfurled the paper, Therese, breathing more steadily now, catching hold of one end.

_To: Mercury_

_From: W Engel_

_Your tests have proved satisfactory on the highest level, and accordingly you will report to my clinic on Friday at 11.00 am precisely to commence insemination procedures._

The two women stared at each other, then at the paper again, as if by looking at it, the brutal reality of it would somehow be lessened.

'I'm so sorry, Sabi' Therese murmured. Sabi shook her head and smiled. 'You're sorry?' she replied, ' _Ach_ Therese, I am sorry too, but for you and Blondie, _ja_? Not for me. Well', she continued, getting up, 'at least it will mean I will see if he is OK, and at least they cannot do anything to him whilst this is going on, although I am dreading to think how they will obtain the . . . the . .'

'Mmm' Therese replied. 'he's not going to take kindly to some butch number of a guard getting hold of him and . . ' she started to giggle a little, looking at Sabi, who had an expression of mock horror on her face, as only she could. They lay back on the bed together for a few minutes, before Sabi heaved herself up and headed towards the door.

'It is likely that Napolina will know what is going on because of the little tooth radio thing, but I think we have to rely on each other to get ourselves out of this mess, darling; you know, the three musketeers, eh?' Sabi said, smiling encouragingly. 'Now remember, be ready to go tomorrow, and I will make sure that this little package' she said, picking up the bag, 'is taken somewhere safe for future use'.

Xxxxxxx

The rooms which Illya was propelled toward, were part of a long block of buildings which housed the clinic, and was adjacent to the accommodation for the pregnant women brought to the island. Illya had the passing thought that they looked a little like holiday cottages, with their pan-tiled roofs and Mediterranean plants adorning them, but the similarity ended at the front door, of which there were several along the block. Jordan rang a bell and the door was swung open to reveal a sparse white interior, some kind of reception area to the medical facilities beyond.

Illya was aware that some of the medical staff were staring at him, not surprisingly he thought, considering what he must look like, and particularly, smell like. He stared back, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had bitten into them as he was dragged along the path. One of whom he presumed were nurses of some sort, disappeared and returned with a white towel and what looked like a surgical gown, which she thrust into the other guard's hand.

'Shower him, then bring him back to the examination room' she said tonelessly, indicating the way with a nod of her head. Normally, he would have welcomed the shower, but this time, the thought of somehow sharing it with Jordan didn't seem quite so appealing. He needed to somehow get through the day intact until he could either meet Therese or find where she was. Until then, there seemed little point in even trying to escape, even if he could, which was highly unlikely.

Jordan drew her gun and dug Illya in the ribs, a sneer forming on her wide, red lips.

'Hurry up before you foul up the whole area' she barked at him, pushing him down the corridor towards a door right at the end. Illya noticed that the doors along the corridor were all fitted with strong looking locks, giving them the feeling of cells, rather than hospital rooms. The end room was a bathroom, with a row of sinks, then a block of showers adjacent. The cubicles were quite large, with glass doors across the middle of each opening. The Shower heads, like large flat flowers, hung down from horizontal pipes running the water across the top of the cubicles.

The other guard, gun drawn, stood by the door as Illya moved forward to stand in front of the shower cubicles. He turned to face Jordan, holding his hands forward.

'I might find it a little difficult to have a shower with these on' Illya murmured. He could suddenly hear Napoleon's voice echoing round his head. 'Shh' he said without thinking. Jordan looked momentarily confused, then reached into her pocket for the key. In a rather loud voice, Illya continued 'I hope you won't mind turning your back, _Jordan,_ while I clean up'. He could hear Napoleon's low snort and the word _shit_ soundingrather more _sotto voce_ around his head now.

'It's Birch, Kuryakin, and yes I do mind where you're concerned' she answered, coming closer and pulling his hands towards her. 'Willow' she ordered, 'stand outside the door and keep your gun drawn. Don't come in unless I call you'. _Watch yourself, comrade_ echoed round Illya's head, as he grimaced while the handcuffs were being removed. Jordan stood back and waited, her gun waving up and down to indicate what he was to do next. Illya shrugged and began to take off his clothes and shoes, dropping them in a pile by his side, then turning away from her and pushing open the shower door, slamming it behind him to shut her out. Illya turned on the shower and stood underneath its full force, the water hammering against his head in a thunderous shower, washing his hair whilst Napoleon asked him in anxious terms where _she_ was.

'Stop worrying, Napoleon, I'm perfectly . .'. He was suddenly aware through the shampoo and soap that he was not alone in the cubicle. He spun round as quickly as he could, but not before he was pinned against the wall by Jordan, her body pressed up against his in what felt like a bizarre game of sardines. Illya groaned. This was beginning to feel like a re-run of the incident in the lift, this time a different woman, and with water. However, unlike the Ukrainian woman, Jordan's intentions seemed less violent. Illya leaned back against the shower, eyeing her cautiously, his mouth closed to avoid her hearing Napoleon insisting he tell him what was going on. With no clothes on, he could see how well developed she was, and why she was so strong. Keeping her arm across his shoulders, she reached for the sponge and started washing his face and neck, then across his chest and down. As she moved downwards he grabbed her arm.

'What is going on?' he said. They were now eye to eye, the water cascading between them. He slowly reached out and turned the water down to a more gentle stream. Jordan's face was now incredibly close. Illya could almost feel her breath on him, her green eyes boring into him.

'I could help you' she said, as he opened his mouth carefully to allow his partner to hear the conversation. 'You can't do anything for her now; Granite will never let them go. Leave her, Illya; we could get away from here together; we could be great together'. Illya shut his mouth rapidly as he heard Napoleon begin to snort with laughter. Somehow it wasn't quite so funny as his partner thought it was from the safety of his convent cell.

'Jordan' he replied gently, 'I am flattered, but somewhat surprised by your offer. I had the distinct impression that you found me somewhat less than attractive'. Jordan leaned forward and turned off the water, running her fingers through his wet hair and squeezing the water out.

'You grew on me' she said, pulling him towards her mouth and starting to kiss him brutally, her mouth feeling as if it was all over him. He twisted round and wrenched her off him, forcing her back against the side of the cubicle.

'Listen' he said sharply, holding her at bay, 'I am going to escape, but it will be with my wife and baby, and no-one else, Jordan. I'm sorry, perhaps things might have been different, but you must realise that Therese is the only woman in my life; she _is_ my life'. There was a pause, while they stood, frozen in their positions. At last she struggled free, and gave Illya a stinging slap across the face that momentarily unbalanced him. He pushed past her and handed her the towel, before walking to the door and politely knocking, getting the desired response from the other guard outside.

'I wonder, could you get us another towel; I've had to give your colleague mine'. The other girl stared at him, then past the Russian towards the wet figure rapidly drying herself behind him. A few moments later she returned, accompanied by the nurse. Jordan, now completely dressed, grabbed the towel and threw it in his direction, slamming the door shut in the faces of her surprised colleagues.

'You Russian cretin' she screamed at him, as he calmly dried himself, 'they'll be all over me like a rash now, wanting to know what was going on in here'. Illya rubbed himself with the dry towel and started to put on the hospital gown, cringing at the many, and usually bad, memories associated with such garments. He looked up innocently at her, her face red with rage and frustration.

'Jordan', he said quietly, I'm sure you can make something up to convince them that it was all my fault. After all, you have a large capacity for self-delusion'. She strode over to him, snatching the handcuffs from her pocket and wrenching his hands forwards to put them on.

'You think you're so smart, humiliating me, choosing that fat slut over me' she hissed. 'You just have no idea what that Nazi fruitcake has planned for you, have you? I tell you, Illya dear, just enjoy your masculine superiority for today, lover, because it'll be the last day you do. Come tomorrow, it won't really matter whether it's me or the lovely Therese you wanted to fuck, because you won't want to any more'.

Napoleon switched off his communicator and sat on the bed. He could hear Jordan's harsh tones threatening his partner with the kind of surgery that made him want to throw up in the tiny sink in the corner of the room. However, he couldn't sit here all day listening in to what was happening to Illya; the sense of helplessness that was growing in him while he hid up here was being inflated to epic proportions by doing just that. He needed to formulate a clear plan that would give Illya a cast iron guarantee of not being mutilated by that 'Nazi fruitcake' as Jordan had so aptly described her. He had been taken aback by Jordan's behaviour with Illya; it seemed that on this mission, the girls were throwing themselves at the Russian from all sides, while he, the one with the little green book, now long since thrown in the trash can, was left alone. He thought back to the night in the back of the lorry as the UNCLE girls attempted to revive Kuryakin, of the Ukrainian woman's attack on him in the lift, and now this. He must have lost his touch.

Fernando had left the room a while ago, so Napoleon wandered down in search of him. There were only a limited number of places he could be; the cliff face was a little too exposed to the binoculars of any Bolt girls doing a circuit of the coast, and likewise the area outside the convent walls. He must have taken a walk in the garden or be in the church, Solo concluded.

He found him sitting towards the front of the church, his head bent downwards, hands over his face, whilst he lent his elbows on the back of the rush-seated chair in the row in front. Napoleon eased himself into the adjacent seat and sat there for a while, not disturbing the still figure next to him. Even his sketchy boyhood knowledge of the Church year reminded him that this was a special day. Good Friday. The normally simple church was even more stripped out, the altar a bare expanse of wood, nude of cloths or ornament, the building undecorated, waiting. After the Good Friday liturgy, he remembered, everything lay untouched, until the flaming of the Easter fire on Saturday evening, announced that He had risen. He wondered what Jo would say if she could see him sitting here. He had gone against his better judgement and tried to contact her at work yesterday, but mysteriously, she hadn't been available. His brow creased with working out just where she was.

Fernando looked up and smiled, rather wearily, Napoleon thought.

'OK?' Napoleon said simply.

'I'm doing something I haven't done for a long time' he said. 'I'm praying for my sis'. Napoleon was moved by the simple statement uttered by the other agent. Nobody had thought very much about him being affected by what had happened to Therese, although Illya had not been enthusiastic about him coming with so little experience. Now it boiled down to this; the McCaffery family looking out for each other. Practically. Spiritually. Napoleon could instantly see his wife scrubbing away at Illya to get all that shit off him on that terrible night after the camp fiasco, and also Gabi telling them all what to do to help him. Somehow it felt that their lives, his and Illya's had been so immeasurably deepened by their connection to this family, that their previous existence, however good, seemed shallow in comparison.

'I think we need to move down to the farmhouse tonight' he stated calmly, trying not to sound more worked up than he felt. 'We can hide in the house Vaz and Torres are living in, and then make final plans there. From what I've just heard, we cannot afford to get the timing of this operation wrong at all, understand?' Fernando looked a little alarmed, obviously wondering what Solo knew that he didn't. 'It appears', Napoleon continued, that after the event we unfortunately can't intervene on, namely the procreation of 'The baby from UNCLE' with our two esteemed colleagues as mom and dad, Dr Engel intends to recreate our Russian friend as the robot from UNCLE'.

'What!' Fernando almost shouted, trying to tone down his voice in the echoing church, 'What, like a sort of . . .'.

'Lobotomy? Something like. I think the idea is to save the intellect but remove the emotions, including of course,' he added 'any interest in the opposite sex. You need to understand that we are not dealing with anyone here who is acting like a normal doctor, Fernando. God, he hates doctors as it is, I can't imagine what he's going to be like after all this'.

'Well I don't want to imagine what he's going to look like after she starts in with making him look like the Mekon' Fernando said, his face so stricken and the image of the cartoon character so vivid, that all of a sudden they both began to smile, despite themselves. Napoleon got up, feeling a little calmer suddenly.

'I'm going to go and speak to the estimable Sister Catherine, then as soon as it gets dark, we'll gather our stuff and head out' he said. I have a feeling that Illya and Tess might finally get it together this afternoon, so I'll try him later and catch up'.

'Well watch you pick the right time' Fernando replied, a mordant look sweeping his face; 'you wouldn't want to interrupt anything, would you, especially in the light of what you've just told me'.

'Don't' Napoleon replied.

Xxxxxxx

Sabi peered in through the window of the examination room before she opened the door, not wishing to find herself face to face with Jordan Lawrence anytime soon. She could see that Dr Engel was busying herself at the counter beyond the two couches that were laid out ready to receive their occupants in the near future. The room was quite large, but not equipped for more complicated surgical procedures; that room was beyond Engel's laboratory, which was adjacent to the place she was now staring into. There was also a small bathroom and toilet leading off the examination room; perhaps by some miracle she could get Illya in there for a chat before anything else happened.

As Sabi hesitated by the door, she heard the crunch of gravel from around the back of the building. She froze; there was no way in which she could avoid whoever was coming her way now. In seconds, they were standing next to her; Illya, amusingly dressed in a surgical gown, and the guard called Willow, who stared at Sabi, before opening the door. They had obviously taken him to the showers, for he looked scrubbed clean, apart from the three-day stubble on his face. They stood quite close while the doors opened; he looked steadily at her, then she felt her hand being squeezed before he was pulled inside, Sabi following behind.

Winnifred Engel spun round, her round glasses glinting.

'Good morning Mr Kuryakin. I hope you haven't had too uncomfortable a stay up until now, but you'll be pleased to know I have prepared some special accommodation for you from now on, which I think you will find _cleaner_ '.

'How kind' Illya replied, thinking she must have a hygiene fetish from the way she singled out the adjective, and by the obsessive use of her hands. He remembered the weird circling movements from before. Now he could see that she seemed to be eternally cleaning up or arranging things. She came over and walked round him, his eyes following her as much as he could. He frowned as she pulled back the gown and revealed his body, the guard Willow smirking at the sight by his side.

'Sit on the bed, won't you, Mr Kuryakin' she said, rather unexpectedly. He was ready to be strapped down at any minute, and had already noticed the fixings at the side ready to prevent any possible escape. He sat down gingerly on the side of the bed, his legs swinging free, feeling like a five year old waiting for his latest vaccination. This was definitely the biggest down side of being an UNCLE agent, Illya thought, the combination of torture and injury. However, he did have a wonderful nurse at home now, which made up for it, at least in part. Thinking of Therese made him think of Sabi and the now potentially serious situation they both found themselves in. She was standing there watching him, her beautiful blue-grey eyes sad with strain, he thought. He had tried not to think about the possible consequences of what was going to happen in the next few minutes, until he had the chance to speak to Therese, but he was sure Sabi would have discussed it with her. Illya realised that he had begun to rely on his wife to sort out these family decisions, and he was sure once the baby was born, he would rely on her even more. However, this was no ordinary family decision.

His thoughts were disturbed by Dr Engel's harsh voice, now commanding Sabi to change into an equally dreadful gown. Illya looked round the room. He hoped they were going to provide him with another set of clothes after this; otherwise escape tomorrow was going to be tricky bordering on embarrassing. The thought of tomorrow suddenly filled his mind. He realised he was trying to submerge the gruesome implications of what Jordan had told him in the showers, and he was sure that Napoleon had been equally appalled by what he had heard. Still, that was tomorrow; today had to be got through first.

Sabi undressed in the little bathroom, coming back into the examination area wearing an identical gown to Illya's. He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly, as she sat on the side of the other couch, the two agents facing each other like blue eyed, blond twins. She hadn't seen him for several months, and noticed his physique, what looked like fairly recent scars on his arms and legs, and of course, the partially grown-out, but still fairly severe haircut. She put her hand on her head, signalling to him her amazement. He mouthed back the words 'it's a long story' to her, as Dr Engel turned round from the counter.

She glanced at Sabi and then turned towards Illya, pushing him back onto the couch and nodding to a nurse who was standing behind her, to clamp the restraints in place. Sabi found it hard not to breathe inwardly rather hard, at which the doctor turned.

'I'm afraid we have to do this to him' she said, indicating Illya with her thumb. 'How much do you know about him?'. Sabi was slightly taken aback by the question, but managed to control her expression in time, although she could see Illya grinning behind her.

'I'd heard he was highly dangerous; a ruthless killer in fact' Sabi said in shocked terms. 'I suppose that is to be expected from one of his race'. Illya was now pulling a terrible face, making it extremely difficult for her to respond appropriately. She glared at him, Dr Engel mistaking her expression for one of disdain.

' _Ja_ , _naturlich fur ein untermensch'_ she spat out. 'But we have to accept that despite that, he has a great intelligence, something which Granite thinks is worth breeding from, _nicht wahr_? Sabi could see that Engel was looking at her closely, her gaze penetrating through the round lens of her glasses towards her countrywoman. Sabi licked her lips, looking down to avoid her stare.

'Excuse me' Illya interrupted, seeing a difficult situation emerging and trying to distract the doctor from her appraisal of his colleague. 'If you want something from me, I won't be able to give it you in this position, I can assure you'. Engel swivelled towards him. Sabi saw him direct his worst stare towards the Nazi doctor; it was now her turn to pull faces behind Dr Engel, watching Illya in full 'Siberian' mode, as she had often referred to his now fully frozen expression. She could see he was drawing the danger away from her onto himself, with all the inherent risks that act involved.

'He has a point, Winnifred'. None of them had noticed the door opening as the two agents sparred with the Nazi doctor. Li-Hua Bolt stood in the doorway, contemplating the scene. Illya breathed in sharply, directing a venomous look towards Bolt. She walked over, ignoring Sabi and heading straight for the Russian. 'Good morning' she said, not even using his name. She looked up at Dr Engel. 'See, I said you would have him, Winnifred, but before you start making your little improvements, we need a sample of genetic material from Mercury here to create the THRUSH ultimate weapon against UNCLE'. She ran her hand along Illya's brow, and then stroked his hair back. 'You're right, Winnifred' she continued, 'even close up he's really quite pretty, even with this' she added, running her hand down his chin. 'He'll make a useful laboratory assistant, I'm sure, and you'll have the satisfaction of him being so eminently controllable'.

She lent over, her feline face close to Illya's. 'Cooperate now or I will call off your final meeting with Storm' she murmured into his ear. 'Remember, I still can control her, and I aim to carry on controlling her long after we consign you to the back of a lab somewhere. I'm sure you can live out your days doing something useful for Bolt pharmaceuticals, watching your daughter grow up to become a world leader. Of course . .' she added, a sneer seeping across her face, 'I mean a THRUSH' world leader'.

'Can we get to the real point of this morning's gathering?' Illya replied acidly, ignoring everything else she had said. 'As I said to our charming doctor here, you will have difficulty extracting anything from me in this position, and I'm certainly not able to help you with these on'. He indicated the restraints, holding his hands down each side of the bed. Bolt stepped back, and signalled to the nurse standing behind Illya's examination couch.

'Take them off. Perhaps Mercury here could assist with the procedure' she added. Sabi virtually flew off her bed and came across the room, a look of teutonic superiority chiselled on her face.

'Be assured, _Fraulein doktor_ that I will not allow him to take advantage of me in any way' she almost shouted, virtually dragging Illya off the bed towards the bathroom. Dr Engel stepped back, thrusting a specimen jar in Sabi's hand.

'Be very careful, Mercury' she whispered, 'he is a brute when he is desperate'. Sabi nodded, her eyes wide, and retreated into the bathroom, pulling the Russian after her. 'Please make sure Willow stands guard, in case he decides not to cooperate' she added, as she slammed the door behind them.

As soon as the door was closed, Sabi stood with her head against the wall, eyes closed.

'Oh, _Gott in himmel_! she exclaimed, pulling Illya towards her. 'I didn't think we'd be able to persuade them to let us come in here, Illyusha, that's a statement!'. Illya pulled back slightly, beginning to smile; 'I think you mean 'that's a fact' Sabi' he said quietly, indicating the door. 'Well it's a fact that we are in a very difficult situation and it appears that unless we cooperate, your life will be in danger, and I will never see Tessy again'. Sabi pulled him down so that they sat on the floor together.

'Darling, we don't have a choice' she murmured. 'You must get to see Therese; I must remain free to help you escape, and if necessary, assist the boys to destroy this place and its dreadful laboratories, and also save the girls and their babies from the hands of those women' she added. 'And, most important Illyusha, I cannot allow you to be touched by her, I cannot' Sabi said, stroking Illya's hair gently. She turned away, a faint smile illuminating her elegant face. 'I cannot imagine what people are going to make of this back in New York, if' she added, 'if, you know . .'

'Yes, Sabi' Illya replied, 'I know'. He held out his hand for the specimen pot.

xxxxxxxx

Therese pushed open the door of the large sitting room, the room where she had first realised she was here on this island, a prisoner. She had spent the best part of an hour trying to make herself look as good as she could, bearing in mind she had little choice of anything to wear, no make-up, and her hair was just a slightly grown out mass of curls, which she expected to lose at any time, the way Bolt had been looking at her recently. Still, what did it matter, as long as they were together again, she thought. She hadn't been able to see him very well from the window, but he looked a little different from the man she had left behind at the wedding. But what did that matter either? Whatever he looked like; to have him in her arms again, to touch him and to feel him touch her, that was what mattered; the rest was superficial, irrelevant.

Another blonde interrupted her gaze. Jordan Lawrence stood by the window, looking inwards as Therese came towards her. Tess remembered the episode in the water, Jordan screaming for her colleague as she swum back to shore. She was glad in a sense, that Jordan was here, because that meant she was not with Illya. And Illya would have been with Sabi.

'Jordan', Therese said, walking to the large sofa and sitting down with difficulty. She was determined not to use those names, however many times they told her. She lay back against the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the woman who had betrayed them both so comprehensively, whom she knew was now lurking behind her. Without warning, Jordan grabbed her hair and pulled it back violently, jerking Therese's head backwards and holding it as she leaned over her.

'What does he see in you?' she jeered, holding Therese's arms down. 'Still, when the good doctor's finished with him, he won't give you a second glance, eh, mommy?'. Tess was too concerned with extricating herself from Jordan's grip to fully take in what she was saying. Jordan's strength and Tess's bulk made it next to impossible for her to escape the American's grip. Her neck was beginning to throb, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. Tess felt the beginnings of panic rising in her chest. She tried to slide down on the sofa, but Jordan lent over and yanked her back up with her arm. Tess began to feel faint, the room swaying in front of her eyes, swimming away.

'Move away or I will kill you'. Tess fell forward, her head aching from the wrenching of her hair. She looked up. Her husband stood in front of her; then he was kneeling down, and she was holding his head in her arms and weeping. She could hear raised voices shouting behind her, but they were irrelevant to the sensation of him; his hair; his smell, his warmth. She could hear him demanding his hands were freed, and startlingly, getting his way. Then his arms were around hers, stroking her aching head, his deeper, calm voice, calming her. Eventually, Therese raised her head. Serious blue eyes gazed into hers, the familiar face a picture of concern.

'It's alright now, don't cry, it's alright'. Illya kept his arm round her, which was as well, since Tess could feel his rage building in the tenseness of his body. Li-Hua Bolt had drawn a gun from her jacket and was pointing it at Jordan, who was pressed against the window of the room behind the sofa. The two Kuryakins sat silently on the sofa, caught between Bolt and Jordan, the other guard rigid behind the tall figure holding the gun.

'I would have thought that what happened to Fedorenko would be enough to make you think twice before you touched her' Bolt was saying, but she replaced her gun in the holster slung at the side of her trousers, staring at the two sitting down as she did, and beckoning to Jordan. 'But, unlike her, you have shown yourself to be an intelligent and loyal member of this family, so I'm willing to overlook your little 'attack' on Storm. Besides, I've decided to reinstate you in your former position'. Jordan looked puzzled, then a sly smile crept across her face. 'Yes', Bolt continued, 'I want you to resume your guard duties for dear Storm, as UNCLE so obligingly engaged you. Now, take her upstairs while I talk to _him_ for a little while'.

The two women watched while Illya helped Therese to get up. He hadn't really looked at her properly since he had been virtually thrown into the room to witness her being wrenched back over the sofa by their former colleague. He could hardly take in the change in her appearance; she seemed huge compared to what she was like at Christmas, and he felt suddenly sad that these final months of their life together before the baby was born had been taken from them, never to be returned. Jordan strutted over, now seemingly recovered from any fears of retribution she may have harboured, and grabbed Therese's arm, but not before her own arm had been gripped, vice-like by Illya, Therese wedged between them as they locked eyes across her.

'Touch her again and I won't be as generous as your present employer' he said, his voice chilling the air between them. Jordan's eyes glittered for a few seconds, as she struggled to twist out of his grasp.

'Let them go, because your time with Storm is ticking by'. Bolt said, standing watching, seemingly fascinated by the interplay between the three people in front of her. Illya slowly released his grip on Jordan's arm, giving his wife a look filled with longing, and, she thought, deep pain.

'Don't be long, _Corazon,_ she murmured, her hand brushing the soft beard along his jaw; Illya groaned at the thought of yet another separation, however brief. He sat back down on the sofa, wriggling a little in the rather tight black jeans and t-shirt that he had been given after the procedure that morning. For once, he hoped that Napoleon would tune in; the trauma of the morning was making it difficult to contemplate tomorrow with equanimity, and he needed to know that there was going to be support and that the support would arrive on time. Cuts and braises, broken bones, even the head injuries he had sustained just a few months ago, paled into insignificance compared with the mutilation planned for him by Engel.

Bolt glided over to the sofa and sat down in one fluid movement that made Illya feel uncomfortable being close to her. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, leaning back against the rigid sofa. The upholstery felt utterly different to the comforting green antique sofa far away in his own sitting room, its unyielding stiffness making it feel as if it was determined people shouldn't feel too comfortable sitting on it.

'Can we get on with whatever you have to say to me' Illya began coldly, 'I have a date I'd rather like to keep'. He opened his eyes to find Bolt's serpentine gaze boring into him.

'I thought you might like to know of a little breakthrough we've had in our laboratories' she hissed, her eyes riveted to his. 'After all, you are, let's say, an 'interested party' in our research'. Illya knew she was going to tell him whatever he said. He edged away from her slightly and glanced at the large modern clock on the wall.

'Are you referring to your mind-controlling drugs, or something even more unpleasant that you want me to try?' he replied, trying to sound less interested than he really was.

'Oh no, nothing to do with our new development; you'll find out all about that tomorrow' she murmured, continuing to hold his gaze. 'This is about Dormiben'. She leant forward slightly towards Illya, her eyes now only reptilian slits of dark green in her flat, expressionless face. 'As you know so well, when Storm goes into labour, the chemicals released in her body will act as an antidote to the drug, and effectively release her from any control I might have over her' she began.

'Yes, I did appreciate that' Illya answered, lying further back with his eyes closed, avoiding her gaze.

'You might have wondered why we didn't bring forward the birth before now' Bolt said. Illya nodded imperceptibly. He had, at times frantically wondered exactly that. 'Your stupid attempt to discover our plans in Germany meant that there was some delay in production and testing, but our chemists have worked selflessly to perfect that will certainly be, shall we say, the 'market leader in mind control' she said, with a derisive laugh. 'Once the child is delivered, the new drug can be administered. Only this time' she said, her voice developing a rather snarling tone as she drew closer to Illya, 'there will be no antidote. This drug will permanently alter the recipient's brain; in effect, it will be possible to mould someone to the will of the one administering the treatment. In short, Mr Kuryakin, Storm, and also the child, will be mine, permanently'.

Illya's eyelids opened fractionally.

'Can I go now?' he said, not moving or looking in her direction. Bolt exhaled loudly and sprang to her feet; Illya could hear her walking over to the door, and the harsh tone of her voice as she spoke to the guard in the corridor.

The guard called Willow entered the room as Illya stood up, anxiously glancing from the glaring Bolt to the unreadable face of the slight blond man standing looking at her. Illya shrugged his shoulders and offered his hands for the usual handcuffs, feeling that Bolt didn't seem to have quite finished with him yet. She came up behind him, walking round him slowly as Illya was roughly held in the grip of the guard.

'Oh, by the way, we really must have a name for you if you're going to stay with us' Bolt said acidly, grasping Illya's chin and forcing him to look at her. 'I suppose it should be something suggestive of those cold blue eyes, shouldn't it?'. She signalled Willow with a quick flick of her hand. 'Please take Ocean to see Storm, and inform Birch that he is to be returned to Dr Engel's keeping in exactly two hours. Oh, Ocean' she added, ignoring the deeply frigid stare directed towards her, 'you might have wondered where your former girlfriend was all this time. No doubt you'll be pleased to know that you'll be reunited later. But don't be frightened when you see her, will you? She's just a little reminder to the others of the cost of displeasing me'.

CHAPTER 15

Jordan was nowhere to be seen when Illya reached the door to Therese's bedroom. He had mentally photographed the corridors and rooms they had passed for future reference, although he hoped that he wouldn't need to rescue her from this rather remote part of the house.

He held out his arms for the handcuffs to be removed, giving Willow an annoyed glare when she hesitated. She glanced down the corridor rather uncertainly, before slowly drawing the key from the pocket of her trousers.

'Don't try anything, otherwise you'll have a very short visit' she said, her voice squeaking with anxiety. 'I'm sure Birch will be back any minute, see?'. Illya sighed impatiently, thrusting his arms out towards her.

'Do you seriously imagine I want to 'try anything', other than opening that door, going through it, and leaving you this side?' he almost shouted at her in exasperation. She jumped slightly and then, with shaking hands, unlocked the cuffs. Illya wrenched them off, then with a very curt 'thank you' opened the door gently and shut it quickly behind him.

She was lying very still on the bed. He quickly realised that she was asleep, her tired face turned towards him, tiny curls framing her head on the pillow. Illya moved silently towards her, and began to take off the few clothes he'd been given, dropping them by the side of the bed in a small black pile. The bed was what he'd heard Napoleon once describe as a 'cosy double'; larger than a single but much narrower than the bed he had miserably occupied at home after he had returned from his sojourn at the UNCLE section house, and the horrors of the camp.

He gently pulled back the covers and slipped in behind her, pushing his body gently into hers, his face into the mass of little curls that had shocked him so much when he had seen her for the first time that afternoon. He felt her quiver with the realisation of his presence, and then turn, her face so near to his that their eyes seemed almost touching.

'Hello' Illya said gently, smiling, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. Therese turned round fully, bringing her arms up round his head, and gave him a long, tender, passionate kiss, her hands stroking and rubbing his hair until it stood on end all over the top of his head. He could feel the bulk of the baby between them, and with delight, the tiny kicks rippling through her abdomen onto his.

Eventually, Therese withdrew her lips from his and stared at him.

'You feel different; you're all hard, I mean, more than normal, and . . . what have you done to your hair?' she whispered in his ear, a little smile lighting up her face.

'Um, well . .'. Before he could come up with something that would sound remotely plausible, she started to pull at his shoulder, turning him onto his front, and running her hand across his neck and shoulders.

'You've got some explaining to do, Illya Kuryakin, and after you've made up an excuse about that haircut, you can tell me about these' she murmured, fingering the five burn marks on Illya's neck which he hoped would have disappeared by the time she'd be close enough to notice. She ran her fingers gently round his exposed ears, following them with her lips, until he couldn't bear it any more, and turned back, gently turning Therese so that he could envelope her with his embrace from behind.

He hesitated for a few moments, until she drew his arms round her, and murmured 'what are you waiting for' as he lifted his body up and into her, his head thrust over her shoulders, taking in, with wonder, the sensation of being one with her body again. The agony and frustration of the weeks without her slid away like a old discarded skin, until he lay back, suffused with joy, this little episode, this brief time together, a steady light in the middle of a dark, disturbing sea surrounding them.

Therese lay on her back and looked down at the blond head finding his accustomed place on her body.

'They're different'.

'Well spotted, Doctor Spock. Now, much as I hate to break up the party, I need to show you a few things, and also, I've got something else Sabi gave me for you, but you'll have to be good while I put it on'. Illya sat up and looked down at the girl lying on the bed, her breasts swollen, the nipples huge and dark in the shadows of the late afternoon. With a superhuman effort, he glanced at the tiny clock by her bedside, forcing himself to sit upright, and then swing his legs over to stand up.

'Put what on?' he asked, as he forced himself to put his clothes back on. Before she could answer, another voice had exploded into the quietness of the room.

'Am I interrupting anything?'. Illya raised his eyebrows and heaved a sigh, watching, with regret, Therese clambering into the dreary black trousers and top that he was determined would be thrown into the nearest dustbin as soon as they got away from this place.

'Your timing is, for once, quite reasonable' Illya grumbled. Before he could continue, Therese had come up to him, and held his mouth open while she spoke.

'Your timing is not reasonable' she almost shouted down Illya's throat, 'go away for another ten minutes until I've shown him a few things and then painted his nails' she said wickedly, laughing at Illya's expression. There was a momentary silence.

'Gee, and I thought I knew all the tricks of the bedroom' came the reply; 'have fun, children, Uncle Napoleon will tune in very soon, so make sure whatever you're up to is finished and you're nice and calm, comrade, to hear about our little plan to make sure you won't be mistaken for Robby the robot'.

'Thank you Napoleon; now, as they say in Liverpool, _do one_ , won't you please?' Illya replied, still not quite sure what on earth Therese had been talking about. She seemed to be scrabbling around under the mattress for a few moments, coming out with what looked remarkably similar to a bottle of clear nail varnish.

'Yes, you heard right' Therese said, pulling him towards the little table and chair that stood at the other end of the room. 'This is a sort of nail varnish, but unlike any you're likely to buy at your local drugstore'. She pushed him down on the chair and laid out his hands on the table, the long fingers splayed out fan-like on the wooden surface. 'Now, don't move, because unlike real nail varnish, this has a rather interesting reaction to surfaces other than human flesh' she whispered, glancing over at the door. Illya pursed his lips, watching as she carefully painted the oval nails with the clear liquid.

'You're beginning to sound like those guys down in Section 10' he murmured. 'Anyway, what is the 'interesting reaction' you so interestingly referred to a moment ago?'. Therese looked at him and resisted a strong impulse to put the bottle down and kiss him.

'Well, the 'guys' in Section whatever, thought you might need a little helping hand to break free, and seeing that you'll probably be minus everything, and you like doing all this blowing up sort of thing, they came up with this' Therese replied, waving the bottle about alarmingly, Illya thought. 'I can't demonstrate it, because that will bring Jordan thundering in, but, if you just sort of roll it off your nail . .' she demonstrated with her finger and thumb, smiling rather conspiratorially, 'and then just stick it on something, apparently, in about five seconds, it will cause a nice little explosion' Therese ended, slapping her hands together enthusiastically. Illya went to take the bottle from her, but she forced his hands back on the table.

'No! don't move for another few minutes, otherwise we'll have mini-explosions all over the place!' Therese gasped. She moved behind Illya, putting the bottle back on the table, and began to stroke the rather tangled hair on top of his head, then bringing her hands down to gently massage his shoulders.

'Now, _amado,_ while I've got you pinned down as it were, perhaps you can tell me a few things you've been so obviously keeping from me' Therese murmured in his ear. Illya exhaled deeply, making a mental list of what she was going to mention, and which might come first.

'And what _things_ might you mean, Teresita?' he replied, his voice low and rich in the darkening room. She continued to work her fingers into his neck and shoulders, his head slightly drooping with the pleasure of it.

'Well, let's start with what you think Dr Engel is planning for you tomorrow, and then you can tell me what Li-Hua wanted to tell you after I came back up here'.

Illya sighed deeply. He had hoped that he might have been able to distract her by talking about his hair for a considerable time, but of course she had prioritised her list and that had obviously come at the bottom, under amusing, but unimportant stories. He squirmed under her patient waiting, for once torn between trotting out the usual 'top secret' excuse and a feeling that she had a right to know about events which could completely alter their lives.

'Well, as you must have heard both Napoleon and Jordan referring to it, I'm afraid the not so good Doctor has plans for me that will result in what the guys at UNCLE have been trying to achieve for a long time' Illya replied, getting up from the table, and taking Therese back to the bed. They lay on top together, pulling the pillows around them for comfort.

'What, you being tidy, or well-dressed, or getting a haircut more than every six months? . . .'

'Very funny' Illya replied, putting his arm round her enormously expanded waist. 'Anyway, you've done that without the need for a frontal lobotomy. No, Dr Engel would like to make a permanent change to my personality of an entirely more depressing type; I'm afraid I'm destined to become a clever, but emotionless laboratory robot, carrying out the orders of Bolt Pharmaceuticals' . Therese drew his head towards her and held him close, his beard gently tickling her face.

'Do anything you have to, to stop her' she murmured. 'What she is planning is hideous and cruel'. They lay together for a while, as if the idea of what had been spoken about needed to pass through their minds and fade away, before they spoke again.

After a while, Therese pushed herself off the bed, and opened the doors of the armoire, pulling out an identical black outfit from its wide shelves. She laid it on the bed, putting an ugly black choker necklace on top, similar to the one worn by Bolt, which reminded Illya of the sort of collar that large, aggressive dogs wore, the type of dogs which loved to have his neck between their jaws. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, and sat watching her as she arranged the garments on the bed.

'Now pay attention, Ruskie, because if I'm under the spell of the wicked witch tomorrow, you may have to help yourself' Therese said, picking up the collar. Illya cringed at her comment. After she had showed him the various items, he drew her down to sit by his side. He looked into her trusting eyes for a few seconds, before dropping his own in an intense examination of his hands. She touched his chin, turning his face in her direction.

'Now tell me what she said to you' she said quietly.

A sharp clunk against the shutter at the side of the window interrupted the awkward silence that had suddenly taken hold of them. Therese ran across to the window and leaned out. Illya was taken by surprise by the speed which she moved across the room, and followed her, squeezing in by her side to look out of the window, his arm round her shoulders, fingers in her abundant curls.

Sabi was standing below. They could see that she was supervising the removal of some cartons from the laboratories to several flat-bedded trucks that were parked at the end of the road leading to the port area. Illya wondered why on earth Sabi had made such an effort to draw their attention to what was going on, until something about the men made him smile. Therese gasped as a familiar face smiled up at her from underneath a broad straw hat.

'Nando' she murmured, looking excitedly at Illya.

'Mm' he replied. If Fernando was there, he thought, then . . .. He looked closely at the other men. A rather scruffy looking individual wearing a dark blue bandanna tied round his head glanced up. He seemed to have something up his sleeve, and had brought the end of it up to his mouth. Illya nudged Therese, indicating where she should look. She began to chuckle softly, her golden brown eyes slightly glinting in the setting sun. Immediately, the scruffy individual's voice echoed in his head.

'Didn't your mother teach you it was rude to stare?'. Illya grinned.

'I'm glad to see that you're earning your keep at least' he replied.

'Get away from the window now, or I'll take you to Engel with a hole in your leg'. Illya could feel Therese instantly freeze, then shudder violently at his side. He turned round slowly, clasping Therese's hand firmly. Jordan had entered the room so silently that even Illya had not been aware of her. He cursed himself for letting his guard down so easily. He could hear Napoleon in his head, the reassuringly familiar tones relating the story of their journey to the Bolt estate, asking after his wife, making crude jokes at his expense. When he thought there might be a gap in Napoleon's narrative, he spoke, loudly and deliberately.

'Good evening Jordan, we were just taking in the view'. A loud 'shit' reverberated round his mouth, followed by silence. Jordan indicated with her gun and, pushing them away, she glanced out at the exact time as Sabi came round the corner, looking directly up at the window. Illya felt as if an electric current had passed between the woman staring out of the window and the one beneath. The name, _Klose,_ escaped from Jordan's lips in a thin, low screech.

Pushing Therese back hard onto the bed, Illya leapt at Jordan, the gun flying across the room before dropping to the floor and skidding under the armoire with a clunk as it hit the wall. He felt her fingernails clawing at him, tearing the t-shirt across his chest. They rolled across the floor, kicking and grunting, Therese frozen on the bed, fear constricting her throat into a hoarse low-pitched scream. Jordan punched hard at Illya's face, and he could feel blood starting to run down from his cheek and lips. He was pinned underneath her while she rained down blows onto his head. His eye was now closing, but before she could do further damage, with a great heave, he forced her off, rolled over, and smashed his fist up under her chin. He felt her snap back with the power of the punch, and, as she rolled over, he chopped the back of her neck, her lifeless body instantly silenced by the blow.

Illya staggered up to a standing position, blood now pouring across his face from open cuts around his eye and cheek. He could hear the insistent voice of his partner asking him what was going on, but as the room started to spin slightly, he found it difficult to explain. He could feel Therese's arms round him, dragging him backwards onto the bed, then gently opening his mouth and speaking; low urgent words.

Sabi moved rapidly across towards Napoleon and waved her gun at him, while she whispered urgently that something was terribly wrong in the room where the two familiar faces had only just been staring at them with such amusement.

'Come with me now, Napoleon; I will have to make up some excuse if we meet anyone. Keep your face down and let me do the talking, OK?'. She had seen Jordan's face framed in the window, and could only guess what might have happened next. They moved towards a small door leading into the house, Napoleon following in a submissive way, head down, making sidelong glances as they rushed up the stairs towards the bedrooms on the top floor.

Therese had managed to get the door open and stood there signalling to them. Napoleon realised that he hadn't seen her since the night of his wedding, and instantly a picture of her as she was then, in the beautiful blue dress, her long hair swirling round her head, smiling and kissing her husband, presented itself to him. The girl standing in the doorway was almost unrecognisable in comparison.

Sabi held Therese's hand in a natural gesture of female support, whilst Napoleon shut the door behind them. He could see immediately that Jordan was dead, her head set at a crazy angle to her body, her arms and legs splayed out, as if she was in the act of running. The Russian lay still on the bed, his head a blood-soaked mess of oozing wounds, starting to stain the sheets below him.

'See if you can find something to clean up his face a little, while we think up what we're going to do with her' he said quietly, coming over to Illya, and feeling the pulse in his neck. He could hear Sabi and Therese tearing a sheet behind him, as he stared at the figure on the bed. Illya's face was suffused with blood, and Solo could see that there were going to be some serious damage to the delicate features. His hair and beard were caked with dark red-brown drying blood, his left eye completely closed and swollen, the eyelid a dark shade of purple. His partly open mouth revealed a bloody mess within, an early trip to the dentist almost certainly indicated, Napoleon thought.

Therese gently squeezed in beside him and began to carefully wipe the blood from her husband's battered face, murmuring words to him in a language which Napoleon recognised as the Catalan he had heard spoken on these islands.

'Napolina, you must go. There is nowhere for us to hide her body without you being seen, and it is essential that you stay free, darling'. Napoleon turned to the German agent, who was standing near Jordan's body, looking down at her with a barely disguised expression of contempt.

'Just what have you got in mind?' he whispered, his back to the couple behind him. Sabi drew him away from them, towards the door.

'Don't whisper behind my back, I know what you're up to'. Therese had left Illya for a few moments and came up to them, separating them by her sheer size. She looked down at the splayed out figure on the floor and then knelt down by her side.

'What are you doing?' Sabi said incredulously, as Therese moved her hand towards Jordan's head. When she looked up, Therese's head was bathed in the light from the window, but it was the compassionate expression on her face that struck Sabi so forcefully. She placed her delicate hand over the dead agent's face, and slowly closed her eyes, before heaving herself to her feet.

'She attacked me this afternoon, and Li saw her' Therese began. 'Tell Li that she tried again, and Illya, well, you can see what happened' she said, walking back to the stricken body on the bed. As she continued to bathe his head, Therese turned towards them, a determined look spreading across her face. 'Of course' she continued, 'one of you will have to make it look as if she had a go at me'. The two agents looked at each other aghast, Sabi shaking her head. 'Sabi, you have to do it' Therese pleaded, sitting on the bed next to Illya, who had started to make a few low groans as she mopped away at his head.

Napoleon turned away slightly towards Sabi. 'She's perfectly right of course' he murmured. 'Otherwise it's going to look as if he attacked her without reason, or even worse, because she had seen something or someone he didn't want her to tell anyone about'. Sabi nodded fiercely.

'Stand near her' she murmured, 'I don't want her falling and hurting herself even more'. Sabi sighed, putting her gun into her holster. 'I'm just glad that Blondie can't see what I'm about to do'. She walked across to the bed with Napoleon, the two agents standing either side of the bent figure now trying to remove the blood from Illya's hair.

'Therese' Sabi said quietly. As Therese straightened and turned towards her, Sabi brought her hand up and gave the smaller woman a hard slap, harder than she had intended. Therese was thrown backwards and to the side, catching her head on the edge of the bed head before Napoleon could break her fall, and eliciting a loud groan from the figure on the bed. ' _Oh mein Gott!'_ Sabi cried, pulling Therese towards her and covering her with kisses.

'It's fine, I'm fine, just a little . . . groggy' Therese said, starting to sway rather alarmingly. Napoleon grabbed her from behind and lifted her up, laying her next to the moaning figure of his injured partner. The curls on the top of her head were matted with blood, and a very obvious handprint was emblazoned over her face.

'Just what is going on?'. Kuryakin's rather indistinct voice cut through the chaos of the last few moments, throwing the other two agents into another panic. Napoleon knelt down by the side of the Russian's head.

'Illya, listen; can you hear me?'. A slight groan and faint nod of the head affirmed his question. 'I have to go now; Um, I'm afraid we've had to set the scene as it were, for Miss Bolt to believe that the lovely Jordan had a swing at your girl and you leapt to her defence'. He could see the Russian's brow contract and the befuddled mind gradually absorb what had been related to him.

'You mean, that you've _hit_ Tess?' he managed to say through the rapidly swelling bruised lips. Napoleon involuntarily backed away a little, as Illya slowly turned his head towards him. His one good eye gave the American a hard stare then turned back towards his wife.

'See you tomorrow then' he said simply. 'Make sure that you get the girls away safely, and Vaz doesn't leave anything standing, right? That must come first'. His hand searched for Napoleon, pulling him nearer to the still face. 'And listen' Illya whispered, struggling to form the words, 'promise me that, if things don't go entirely to your plan, that you take Tess, even if it means leaving me . . . with them'. Napoleon grimaced at the image forming in his mind. 'Tell Vaz that he is to make sure _all_ the buildings are blown up, do you understand?'. Napoleon felt the iron grip of the hand on his arm.

'Yes, I promise. But it won't come to that' he replied tersely, squeezing the Russian's hand. Illya closed his good eye and became still again.

Sabi came round the other side of the bed, checking to see if Therese was conscious.

'I'll take you down, then set off the alarm' she said. 'I expect that Miss Bolt will come, and the doctor too'. Napoleon looked round the room. It resembled what he hoped Li-Hua Bolt would believe it was; a scene of utter chaos, where there had been a struggle to the death. He only hoped that Illya's injuries did not prevent him from making his escape, together with his wife, before any further damage was sustained.

They left the room quietly, getting downstairs as rapidly as they had come. Napoleon slipped out of the back door and melted back into the group of workers manhandling the boxes onto the trucks. As he went to lift a large brown box onto his shoulders, he felt his arm being grabbed.

'Everything tickety-boo?' He put down the box and pulled Vaz to the side of one of the low buildings ranged around the Bolt Estate. The Indian agent pulled back his hat and stared at Solo.

'Are you and Torres ready?' Napoleon asked rather sharply. Vaz nodded, catching the mood of the American agent. Napoleon leaned against the side of the building, glancing across in case a guard might come their way.

'Jordan is dead' Napoleon said baldly, Fernandez blinking slightly at the news. 'She saw Sabi, and Illya had to do something otherwise this whole elaborate charade we've set up would've come crashing round our proverbial asses'. Vaz nodded silently.

'Is he in one piece?' he added, running his hand through his thick hair, which was now tied back in a very un-Vaz like pony tail, giving him the appearance of a rather scruffy pirate.

'Sort of' Napoleon replied. 'She gave him a good beating round the face, so I think he'll be spending a few sessions with Mr Garwood in Dental'.

'Remind me to be out of the country when that's going on' Vaz smirked, his alarmingly white teeth glowing in the shadow of the building. 'So, has our Russian comrade sent me any last minute instructions?' Vaz continued, knowing Illya's almost fanatical attention to detail where explosives were concerned.

'As a matter of fact he did' Napoleon replied. 'He said that you're to make sure that nothing is left standing'. Vaz squinted, his dark expressive face noting the seriousness of Napoleon's manner.

'I presume you mean by that, old man, that if our colleague is not out of the building by the time I press the trigger . . .'

'Just press the trigger' Napoleon said. 'And he will be'.

The allusion of a Mediterranean retreat was brutally shattered by the piercing alarm sounding in the house. Solo and Vaz looked at each other and quickly returned to the area round the trucks, where the other men helping load equipment were situated. Napoleon could see Fernando looking rather anxiously at him, with Torres whispering something in his ear, no doubt to prevent him from looking as frightened as he did at that moment.

Several guards appeared, some running towards the house, and others signalling and shouting to them to stop packing and take the trucks back to the port area.

'That'll suit Fernando and I' Vaz murmured, 'We need to finish off a few little additions to the shipping order at the warehouse'. Napoleon nodded and started to move slowly towards the other two men, gently slipping in between the upturned faces of the others staring at the upstairs window of the farmhouse, where they could hear some commotion pouring out of the open window.

The others were lifting the last of the boxes onto the waiting trucks and jumping up, some of the men sitting on the boxes, looking slightly uneasily at each other, as the strident noise of the alarm reverberated over the buildings.

'Diego, is the boat ready for embarkation?' Solo whispered hurriedly, coming from behind the Spanish agent. Torres didn't react at all to the familiar voice, but continued to stare up at the window like the others.

'Naturally. There are several of the crew who would like to 'jump ship' as it were, with _las nĩnas_ when we round them up tomorrow morning'. He rubbed his hands together, and Napoleon could imagine what he was thinking about the mission to round up the pregnant women and herd them onto the boat. He motioned to Torres and they discreetly disappeared down the side of one of the laboratory buildings, from where most of the packing cases had been coming from, heading for the relative safety of the gardener's accommodation, a tiny cottage which Vaz and Torres had been living in for the last few weeks. As they walked, for the first time in many years, Napoleon prayed, hard.

xxxxxx

For a few moments, until the alarm sounded, the couple on the bed lay together in exhausted silence. Then Therese rolled over and heaved herself off the bed, walking round, and taking another strip of material to wipe the blood from her husband's face. He opened the eye he could use, and watched her as she attempted to remove some of the bloody mess from his mouth. She put her finger in and gently felt round his teeth and gums.

'There's a couple loose and some cracked ones I think' she whispered, cringing at the look of him lying there.

'Listen' Illya replied, 'Jordan made a pass at me in the shower before I came up to see you. Tell Bolt that she attacked you because of me. That other guard saw it and will support your story. Don't worry about what Sabi says; it's better to stick to something nearer to the truth, leaving out the vital bit of information that is'. He tried to smile, but it was too painful.

'Alright, but I hope she believes me' Therese whispered, 'and I hope they're going to patch you up before they try anything else. You don't look very pretty at the moment, _cheri'._ Illya grunted, feeling his mouth with his tongue. Astonishingly, the radio tooth was still intact, but the other side of his mouth felt as if someone had just stood on it. Mercifully, his jaw appeared intact, and the other facial injuries were hopefully superficial. He sat up gingerly, as Therese rammed a pillow behind his head to support him. He took her hand gently and made her sit on the edge of the bed. His head, already pounding from the fight with Jordan, reverberated to the sound of the alarm, but he forced himself to concentrate and collect his scrambled thoughts.

'Tess, before tomorrow we need to discuss something'. Therese looked sharply at him, momentarily suspending her mopping of his face.

'What?'

'The name.'

'What name?' Illya glared at her as hard as his face would allow it.

'The baby's name' he sighed. Therese smiled at the battered face looking at her so intensely.

'Oh, that name. I thought we'd decided on Olga or Boris, or rather, your colleagues had decided' Therese continued. She wondered at herself. Here she was, joking about something that she had thought of night and day for months, with a dead body lying on the floor, her husband, beaten to a pulp on the bed, and just about to be horrifically mutilated by a sadistic pervert at the instigation of someone who had every intention of stealing their baby. The last months had changed her; she recognised it now, and accepted that this was the price of loving the man on the bed. She leaned over and kissed the bruised and bleeding lips. 'Go on then' she murmured, 'tell me'. She turned her head slightly as he whispered faintly into her ear, watching a smile slowly wash over her face, as she very gently kissed him again.

The alarm suddenly stopped, leaving them staring at the figure of Li-Hua Bolt in the doorway, a gaggle of guards with looks ranging from fear to amazement spread across their faces standing behind her, all of them caught in a frozen scene of love, violence and death. Bolt walked straight past Jordan's body and went up to Therese, grabbing her face and turning it from side to side to survey the damage. Despite his injuries, Illya wanted to knock her hand away, hating the crude display of ownership. She let go of Therese and began to look at the Russian.

'Granite, you can see it's as I said; Birch attacked her and he defended her. I think she had an attraction for Storm and when she rejected her, this is what she did'. Sabi stood at the end of the bed, in full Aryan mode, her grey eyes cold and haughty.

'Be quiet. Is this true, my Storm?' Bolt murmured, her eyes drilling into Therese, with a laser-like intensity. Therese looked at Illya, and then turned towards Bolt, her hand trailing behind her to grasp his hand.

'No it's not. She doesn't know anything. She thinks because she's probably carrying his child that she knows him, but she doesn't.' Sabi raised her eyebrows and gave Therese a hard, almost vicious look. The British girl stared back, a combatitive look on her face that Sabi had never seen before, and wondered at. 'It's not me that Jordan wanted, it's Illya' she said, indicating him with her head. 'We thought it was me when we were in New York with her, but since I came here, she's made my life a misery; she attacked me when I was in the sea, and you saw yourself what she did to me today. And she tried it on with Illya in the shower before we met. Ask that other guard if you don't believe me, ask Illya, if he can talk after what she's done to him'.

Bolt glanced up from her perusal of Illya. She signalled to the guards to remove the body and then turned back to gaze at him again.

'Well, Ocean, it looks as if she gave you a few good punches before you got the better of her' she said, looking at him in a pitying, merciless way. 'Mercury, arrange for him to be sent to medical to get this cleaned up' she ordered, indicating his face; 'I'm sure Dr Rondeau will be able to mend him sufficiently before tomorrow's procedure'. She parted Therese's hair to see the wound in her head, pulling her fingers through the petite curls, before she brought her face close to her own.

You need a little attention too, Storm. Mercury here will take you over to Medical. I think you should stay there tonight in case there are any complications. After all, we don't want anything to happen to Diamond'. Bolt straightened, then turned and strode from the room, walking past the dead body of Jordan as if she had been an inconvenient obstacle in her path. Therese watched the remaining guards surround the body and lift her up between them, carrying her out in silence, the only noise the scrape of their boots against the rough wood of the floor.

'Diamond! Did you hear that? And she's given you a stupid name as well, Illyusha! What a divvy! And just who is Dr Rondeau when she's at home?!'. Therese's scouse accent was in full flow as she exploded, jumping up and grabbing the black outfit she had been showing Illya from the end of the bed.

'You were _wunderbar_ darling, I was frightened of you, you looked so fierce!' Sabi cooed, helping Therese to take off her identical, but less armed, black outfit, and substitute it with the other one. Illya edged himself gently to the side of the bed and put his feet on the floor. The room swam round him a little, and then righted itself. He watched his wife putting on the hated black clothes. By a large degree of good fortune, combined with Tess's pluck, the fiasco with Jordan had resulted in her being moved to the right place for any chance of escape. Without her clothes on, and standing in front of him, she looked absolutely huge he thought; surely there could only be a few days until the baby would be born. She managed to get the top on, and then came and sat next to him to put on the trousers, lying back on the bed to pull them up, eliciting a painful smile from her husband.

'Don't laugh at me; you have no idea how difficult it is to do this with what feels like a football rammed between my legs' she puffed. 'And I still want to know who Dr Rondeau is'.

'Apparently, she is a plastic surgeon, so she may be able to help you, Illyusha'. Illya looked up, his brows contracted. 'Dr Engel is a brain surgeon, Illya; Sabi made her usual over-dramatic facial expressions as she talked, making Therese smile despite herself. 'Apparently, so one of those frightful nurses told me, she is a close friend of Miss Bolt's and she has worked in your neck of the forests, Illyusha'. Illya grimaced, painfully.

'Neck of the _woods_ , Sabi' he sighed. 'Presumably, you mean, that she's worked in the Soviet Union?'.

' _Nein_ , darling. I think she was in Paris'. Illya breathed in deeply and stood upright, holding on to Sabi, as they moved towards the door. _Rondeau_. There was only one person it could be, but he couldn't for the life of him think what she should be doing here. He sighed inwardly. He stopped for a moment and motioned to Therese to come close.

'Listen, Tess' he gasped, painfully. 'Tomorrow, hopefully, Napoleon's little scheme will result in enough chaos for us to get away and down to the port in time to catch the boat out of here. However, it is essential that you stay in medical long enough, and don't let them bring you back here'. Therese put her hand on his lips.

'Don't talk any more, it's too painful. I know what to do. There's one thing that will definitely ensure I stay down there, isn't there, and you've probably brought it on a little with your amorous attentions, anyway'. Illya frowned and then smiled, as much as he could without wincing at the same time.

'Oh, I see. Well let's hope little Diamond doesn't make an appearance too soon' Illya said archly.

'Of course, Ocean dear' Therese answered, as they slowly left the room.

CHAPTER 16

A sharp knock on the window alerted Napoleon that Sabi was outside. Torres was lying on the small red sofa in the tiny sitting area, his hat over his face, as Solo crossed the room to open the door. He could see beyond the tall figure of the German agent to the vegetable garden beyond, and to the medical buildings beyond that. Fernando and Vaz had used the general chaos of the alarm to slip down to the port and hide in the warehouse, waiting for darkness to complete their preparations for the morning. Sabi glanced round, and then slipped into the tiny cottage, shutting the door quickly behind her. Torres stood up, throwing the hat down on the floor, and then dragging a small table into the middle of the room. Napoleon leaned out of the window and brought the shutters to, making doubly sure that there would be no witnesses to their meeting.

Sabi sat down with a sigh, her long legs stretching out underneath the table. Torres slammed down a large bottle of water and some glasses on the table, and they all took their places, in companionable conspiracy.

'What's the score with the happy couple?' Napoleon began, sipping water gratefully, the exertions of moving the boxes finally having their effect.

'They are both in the Medical area now. Dr Rondeau is going to deal with Illyusha and Therese tonight, so that they can get on with his operation tomorrow. I think that they're waiting until the baby is born before they leave, so Dr Engel has time to amuse herself playing with Blondie's brain in the meantime'. Napoleon scratched his head, staring at Sabi, his lips puckered up in confusion.

'Have I missed something here, or have we another doctor on the scene?'.

' _Ja voll_ , Napolina. She is a friend of Miss Bolt's, although I don't think 'friend' in the way we would think of it, darling. I think that she must be working for THRUSH somewhere, and Bolt has invited her here, which is good for Illyusha, because his face has been badly beaten by that _ubele_ _hexe_ Jordan. I think she's going to repair Tess's head too'. She put her hands to her face, shaking it from side to side. 'I feel so bad about that, Napoleon; I am hoping that Blondie will forgive me when he is better'.

'I somehow think that 'Blondie' will feel he has a great deal to thank you for, Sabi' Napoleon replied, smiling at the earnest face of the German. 'Now, down to tomorrow'. Torres brought over several pieces of paper and some pencils, and began to write a long, detailed schedule, the times listed carefully at the side, Sabi leaning over his shoulder, drawing little maps at the side of the writing.

Napoleon sat back, thinking about the second doctor. It was seriously frustrating that he could not contact New York, or any UNCLE office for that matter, to discover more about the mysterious Dr Rondeau. He wondered whether Illya knew her, and whether he felt as pleased as Sabi that she would be patching him up. He considered whether or not to try to contact the Russian, but decided to wait until the chance of the said doctor being in the middle of her work might be less likely.

'Sabi' he murmured, pushing his chair back and standing up, 'Am I right in thinking that the communications centre on this place is in one of these cottages?'. Sabi nodded, and her eyes suddenly widened at the look on both Solo's and Torres' faces.

'Oh no boys, that would be _very_ dangerous!' she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, checking her watch before going towards the door. Napoleon rubbed the side of his face thoughtfully.

'I don't know about you, Diego, but I'm feeling a little bit bored with all this hanging around' he said, a grin lighting up his face. 'Now, we don't want to draw any attention to ourselves, but if we could kinda restore satellite communication, then I've got one or two little sideshows I think we could organise, to deflect the girls attention away, yeah? And then, we might be able to find out who the charming French doctor is, who is, I imagine, at this moment, trying to make our comrade a little bit better looking'.

'That would not be possible' Sabi said.

xxxxxxxx

Illya lay on the table in what appeared to be a room looking far more like an operating theatre than the treatment room he had previously been taken to. It was extremely well furnished, as far as he could tell, with the latest surgical equipment, including, to his alarm, a large sterile tray of particularly unpleasant scalpels which had been placed near to his head. In the background, he could hear the sound of water running, and distant voices talking. He strained to hear what language was being used, but his thoughts were still muddled by the force of Jordan's assault on him, and their voices distorted by the sound of the water.

Eventually, through his one good eye, Illya caught sight of several gowned figures approaching the table. He stiffened in apprehension of what might come. He had already endured the far from gentle ministrations of the Bolt nurses, who had cleaned off the dried blood from his face and hair, and worse, from the inside of his mouth, with ruthless efficiency and little tenderness, shaving his face regardless of the deep cuts which were opened again by the razor's action. He spotted one of the nurses coming round the table to stand next to the sterile tray, beginning to count the instruments, and to thread several needles with suture material. Suddenly, he was dazzled by the thud of the theatre lights coming on above him, and a voice he recognised, ordering the nurses to stand back while she made an initial examination.

'Marie-Laure?' he choked, his mouth feeling as if someone had torn it apart and shoved it together again. The brown eyes above the surgical mask flashed a warning to him, then came closer, gloved fingers very gently feeling round his face.

' _N'ai pas peur_ Illy'. He took a few deep breaths through his nose and tried to unscramble the thoughts ricocheting round his head like cars on a track. Frantically, he tried to look at her more closely, his eye aching with the effort.

Marie-Laure. She was Marie-Laure Colbert when he knew her. His tired brain instantly threw images of her in front of his eyes; Marie-Laure with Sacre-Coeur looming up behind her like a ghost on a particularly foggy day in Montmartre; Marie-Laure lying on the grass by the Seine on a red hot day after final exams, running her hand through his hair while he tried to read some scientific journal. He shuddered at himself as he was then; so rigid in his attitudes; so focused on his work he hardly even noticed her attentions, never mind responding to them. Illy. That was what she had called him. _Mon beau Illy._ Well, he wasn't very beautiful now. And what on earth was she doing here?

She drew back slightly, and he could see her drawing up several syringes. She came forward again and leant over him, the scent of her perfume invading his senses, as the memories of her flooded back. Had he betrayed her in some way? Was she now going to wreak havoc on his face before the other so-called doctor wreaked havoc in his brain? He began to pant slightly with the thought of it all. She turned to the nurse next to her, waving her away with a little toss of her head and hand.

'Please leave me; I prefer to work alone, and besides, he is not so badly injured that I need help to make him presentable, _n'est-ce pas_?'. The nurse shrugged and stepped back. Illya heard the swish of the door as she left, leaving them alone.

Before he could summon the effort to speak, she had put her finger on his damaged lips and bent over him.

' _Ne parle pas, Illy'_ she murmured, 'don't speak, because we may only have a few moments before she comes back'. She picked up one of the syringes and began to inject the liquid round his eye and cheek, with a touch so gentle that he could hardly feel the prick of the needle in his skin. 'Listen' she continued, 'whatever I say, remember that you can trust me, _cheri_ , but you must not let me down, as you did before, _non_?'. He gazed back at her, struggling to make sense of what she was saying. She picked up the suture material and leaned over him. 'You have some quite deep cuts round your eye and mouth, but I will make sure the scars are _minuscule'._

She began to work on his face, making tiny stitches round his eye, then working on his lip and cheek.

'I can't do much with your teeth, _cheri_ ', she said, as she examined his mouth. 'You will have to visit the dentist, I think'. He was suddenly aware of another figure standing the other side of the table.

'I can see why they value you at Central, Marie-Laure, but you really don't have to take that much trouble with Ocean here' came a familiar voice. 'By tomorrow evening, he won't care what he looks like, will you?'. Illya glared as much as his face would allow him to. It was difficult to speak or even move his anaesthetised face, but he managed to stutter 'Therese?' before sinking back, Marie-Laure now examining his hairline, picking up some tiny scissors from the sterile tray.

'Therese?' she said, looking at Bolt.

'Storm', my partner' she replied, with a look of barely concealed conceit on her face; 'the producer of our daughter Diamond'. Illya felt Marie-Laure's tiny hand holding his head down as she looked back at his face. He wasn't sure, but he thought he read contempt there, but for whom? She gazed into his eyes and then looked up as Bolt spoke again.

'She has a head injury, as I mentioned. We will prepare her head if you could suture the wound'.

'That won't be necessary' Marie-Laure countered, glancing at Illya. 'I have some experimental material I can use, which, unless the wound is very deep, won't necessitate removing the hair'. She looked down at the man on the table, seeing the stricken face softening, at her words, into an expression she had never been able to elicit from him, not even in their most intimate moments together.

Bolt walked away, talking into a transmitter, the outer door banging behind her.

'Thank you'. Marie-Laure lifted up the hair on his forehead again, to look at the wound lying right on the hairline.

'Mm. I hope she is worth your love, Illy' she said, starting to snip the hair close to his scalp. 'Now, unlike your lover, your wound is too deep to glue, so I have to cut a little. _Excusez-moi, cheri.'_

 _'Pas de tout, Laurie'._ She paused, blowing the cut hair away, moved by the old name. As she anaesthetised the area, she looked closely at him again, eyes taking in the battered, but fine features, and the body below them. She picked up the suture material and began to put in a fine line of tiny stitches into the wound snaking along his hairline.

'You've been looking after yourself I can see, Illy, but what became of the golden mane I helped you grow? Your wife not approve?'. He pursed his lips as images of Therese passed across his eyes.

'That was a long time ago, Laurie'. He could see himself at the beginning of that year in Paris. He had literally come off a ship in Odessa days before the term began. He could see her now, a tiny slip of a girl asking him what prison he had just been let out of, and his stiff, formal response; 'I am a Russian Naval Officer'. He cringed at the thought of himself then, but she had thought it thrilling, mysterious, and the more he had tried to shrug her off, the more she had pursued him. In the end he had given in, and she had begun to work on him; the hair, a shaven shadow on his head then, becoming the 'mane' she was now describing. He realised now that, besides the new look, Marie-Laure had changed him in so many other ways too. But she had wanted a commitment he was not ready to make. At the end of the year he had gone to Cambridge, promising to keep in touch. Mid-way through the first term he had heard through a friend that she had married Phillipe Rondeau, a plastic surgeon working in the Medical faculty at Paris-Sud Université. Even now he couldn't believe she'd married such a man. He had made the decision then not to contact her. They had both made their choice. Now, here she was, an obviously first-rate surgeon, and also an employee of THRUSH. He frowned, with difficulty, at the thought.

Then Marie-Laure had finished, putting the remaining suture material back on the tray, and inspecting his face closely, her dark eyes checking and approving her own work. Illya knew it was pointless trying to engage her in conversation; whatever was going on she was not about to share it with him, and besides that, he could hardly move a muscle on his face, let alone chat to this woman. She applied some dressings onto the deeper cuts and began to bandage his head, lifting it up and gently wedging it under her arm as she wound the dressing round with deft movements of her hands. She laid his head down again and then came up very close, gazing at him with tenderness and regret.

'Illy, I have to go now. _Bon chance, mon brave'_. Before he could attempt to make any sort of response she had left the room, and the Bolt nurses had instantly reappeared, removing the restraints holding him to the table. He struggled, turning his head to see who was making such a meal of taking off the restraint on his other hand.

It was next to impossible not to shudder at the person standing there. However plain Elena Fedorenko had been in the past, she was infinitely preferable to the horror that stared at him now. Her face looked as if a meat slicer had gone through the middle of it, leaving a wide red scar winding through from her scalp to her neck. One eye had been lost in the cut, now a sightless hole in the side of her head; her cheek and lips had been laid open, and had healed, by the look of it, without sutures, leaving ugly wide scars. Her only feature untouched was her nose, which seemed to stand out unnaturally on her face now, in contrast to the devastation round it. Illya closed his eyes momentarily. Despite their somewhat stormy relationship, he felt intensely sorry for this ghastly disfigured soul standing like a statue in front of him.

'Elena?' he whispered gently. He thought of his wife, how she would behave towards this woman, how compassionate she would be. The Ukrainian opened her mouth to speak, but all Illya could hear were deep, garbled sounds coming from her throat. He stared at her intensely, his gut churning at the reason for the strange utterances. Then he could see. Her tongue had been severed, only a pink, flapping stump remaining inside her mouth. He looked away from her and down to his hand. The reason she was struggling to release him was now evident. The middle finger on each hand had been removed, leaving both hands horrifically symmetrical.

With his undamaged eye he looked up into her one remaining eye. 'I'm so sorry' he managed, trying to stop himself looking away at the sight of her. She leaned over him and brought her hand up so that he stiffened and turned away, expecting a blow. He felt instead, her remaining fingers softly running down his undamaged cheek, and a single tear drop run down the side of his face, before she straightened and turned away, standing back as he was helped off the table by the nurses.

He could sense that she was behind him all the way back to his room, and he wondered what her role now was, except to frighten to death any other employee who might entertain the possibility of disobedience. He noticed that she was armed with a pistol, but whether she could shoot accurately remained to be seen.

She came into the room behind the nurses and, using her gun, indicated he was to get on the bed.

'Have a nice rest, Ocean' the nastier of the two nurses sneered; 'we'll be back later to feed you if you can manage it; then of course, it's nil by mouth from midnight ready for your surgery' she added, a vicious smile cracking her thin lips. Illya turned his head away from them and attempted to face the wall. If this was to be his last evening in his own mind, he preferred to spend it not looking at them. As he turned his head, he caught sight of Elena, leaving the room, and the petrified faces of the nurses as she passed. As the door closed, the lights dimmed momentarily, then returned to their normal glare. Illya shrugged, and then closed his eyes.

xxxxxxxx

Napoleon slowly unscrewed the silencer of his PPK and stuck the gun back into his holster. The two guards lay in a tangled heap where they had slid off their chairs and somehow entangled themselves in each other, their heads locked together like two furry balls. He came over and pushed them slightly. _Ugly_ he thought, looking at them, an adjective he didn't usually use when looking at fit young women like these.

Sabi had closed the blinds to any outside view, and she proceeded to drag the girls towards the far wall, while Napoleon stared at the radio controls in front of him. He could have done with the Russian here, he thought, but Sabi came over and seemed to know what she was doing.

'It's very simple' she murmured, 'one of the girls you just took out showed me last week. It's just a matter of turning this switch' she leaned over and flicked a large black switch on the console, 'then re-configuring here'. She sat down on one of the chairs and seemed to be turning a dial, and flicking switches. The lights dipped momentarily, causing her to pause, but then she shrugged and continued. 'Now, try with the communicator' she urged, looking at Napoleon. 'And be quick, Napolina, because we need to be out of here very quickly. The guard will change in the morning, but they'll be wondering why they haven't come for anything to eat soon enough'.

Napoleon wrenched off the top of his communicator and spoke into it.

'Open Channel PX please, top priority'. It seemed rather pointless using this channel now, since Jordan was now out of the way, but it saved Waverly lecturing him when they spoke.

'Mr Solo, this is a surprise. I presume that you have disabled the jamming mechanism since we're now able to communicate with you?'

'Ah, Yes sir. A number of things have come up, as it were, that might affect the outcome of the mission, so I thought it was worth the risk to restore communications'.

'Quite so. Well, you'd better give me your report. What has happened to Mr Kuryakin?' Napoleon smiled. The old man definitely had a soft spot for his partner, he was sure of it.

'Well sir, he's sustained a few minor injuries at the hands of Miss Lawrence, but you'll be glad to know that he has dealt with that problem, and, as far as we know, Miss Klose has not been compromised'.

'Good. Nothing too serious, I hope?'

'No, I don't think so; however, he seems to be under the care of another doctor from THRUSH central it seems. Her name is Marie-Laure Rondeau. I was wondering . . .'

'Mr Solo, is the transmitter in Mr Kuryakin's tooth still functioning?'. Napoleon was taken aback by the abrupt turn in the conversation, frowning at the communicator as if Waverly could see his reaction.

'Er, yes, as far as I know. I imagine he's finished in surgery now'.

'Good. I will speak to Mr Kuryakin directly. You had better return to wherever you are and make sure that everything goes smoothly tomorrow morning. Waverly out'.

Napoleon closed the communicator and leant against the desk of the communications console.

'He obviously doesn't want you to know whatever he is going to talk to Blondie about' Sabi murmured, taking the guns off the guards and emptying the shells out of them. 'Perhaps it is private, darling; you know, something he will need to tell you later' she suggested.

'Not another woman coming out of his closet' Napoleon grumbled; 'they seem to be throwing themselves at him, mainly with rather unpleasant consequences'. Sabi came over and put her arm round his shoulders.

'Well, this one sounds as if she will be nice to him, eh?' she said.

'Mm. Well if she is, he'd better have a good story for Tess, otherwise he might get another black eye to add to the one Jordan so generously gave him'.

Napoleon went back to the console, and sat down on the chair, swivelling his communicator again. 'Now, before we go, _Mercury_ , we need to just set up a little something to keep the girls busy at the dock. Open Channel P; Palma please'.

Xxxxxxxxx

Therese stood behind the table of the treatment room, her back wedged against the units by the wall. The other side of the table, a short, stocky nurse stood, a pair of grey clippers in her hand. She knew that beyond Dr Engel's laboratory lay her operating theatre, and that in that theatre, her husband was being treated, but by whom, or how well, she wasn't entirely sure. She had been taken into here when they had virtually carried him into the theatre. At first, she was left alone while Illya was dealt with. The treatment room was too far away to hear anything, but all the rooms in this block had a corridor with glass windows, through which one could view the proceedings in each room, including a separated area for viewing operations in the theatre. Therese shuddered at the thought of what one might be able to watch the next day.

The blinds on the windows facing the corridor had been drawn back, however, and she was able to see who was going in and out of the theatre. Dr Engel had not appeared, surprisingly. It was a much more diminutive figure that walked along the corridor and into the outer room of the theatre, not glancing in her direction as she sat miserably on a chair by the side of the bed, her head throbbing with the pain of the fall in her room. A short while after that, the unmistakeable figure of Li-Hua strode along the corridor. She stopped momentarily, giving Therese an appraising look, as if she was looking over a piece of furniture she'd just purchased. Then she marched off, Therese knew where. It didn't seem very long before she was back, with one of the two nurses that had been in theatre. She came up to Therese, and looked at her for a while. Then she turned to the nurse.

'Dr Rondeau has ordered that her head is to be shaved. Please take care of it before she comes'. There was a hiatus in the room before she turned on her heel and walked away out of the door into the garden.

Therese tried to think through the pounding headache. She clenched her lips together as she watched the nurse go over to a trolley in the corner and return with the clippers, slamming the plug into the wall behind the chair Therese was sitting on. The nurse fetched a small sheet and put it round Therese, ignoring the shaking of her patient's shoulders and tying it roughly at her neck.

'Now sit still. You've got a lot of hair and it'll hurt if you fight me'. She put her hand on Therese's head and pushed it down, while the buzzing of the clippers sounded in her ears.

'No!' Therese pulled away and then brought her head right back towards the nurse, hitting her squarely in the jaw and causing the clippers to spin off onto the floor, lying there buzzing like a strange toy. Therese jumped up as quickly as she could and got round the other side of the bed before the nurse could grab her. She wrenched the cloth off her shoulders and threw it across the bed. 'You are not doing that! I've had it done twice now, and I don't like it!' she shouted at the astonished nurse. 'I'm growing it, see, 'cause that's the way _he_ likes it!' She jerked her thumb towards the theatre, her heart thundering in her chest and her back joining her head in a synchronised ache.

' _Qu'est-ce que se passe? Tiens, laisse-le!'._ The small gowned figure that had been heading for the theatre was now in the room, minus hat and mask. She had very dark brown eyes matched by very straight brown hair cut in a style which reminded Therese of her sister Jo. She was so unlike any of the other women Therese had met on the island, that she gasped in surprise, then felt herself wanting to cry.

'No, no tears, _chère_ Therese. _C'est d'accord maintenant_ '. The French surgeon turned to the nurse, who was picking up the articles scattered in the commotion. 'Go and get the tray from theatre that I put on the side. _Depechez-vous_! Hurry up! Gently taking her arm, she led Therese back to the chair.

'I'm sorry. I just didn't want to lose my hair again. It's just that . . everything is being taken from me, it was just the last straw; I just couldn't . .' Therese hung her head and found that the other woman was holding her, stroking the wild hair. She knelt down, so that Therese could see her, looking up into her face.

'Listen. It is as I told your husband. You have nothing to fear from me. It is not you that I mean to hurt, _cherie_. I have mended him well; he will soon look as handsome as he usually does, _non_? Now, _bon courage_! You will need all the strength you have to endure tomorrow, but I will not let them hurt you, or _him_ '.

The nurse came back with the tray while Marie-Laure scrubbed her hands and put on gloves. She parted Therese's hair, and made the nurse hold it down, while she began to squeeze what felt like ointment on the wound. 'It is experimental, but your wound is not too deep, so I think it will heal without the need for sutures, or for shaving the head' she said, giving the nurse a sharp glare. 'Now, take her back to her room; she needs to rest'. She put her hand on Therese's abdomen. 'He is due very soon, I think' she murmured.

'It's a girl' Therese whispered back. 'I think Illya wanted a boy, but he's come round to it'. A cold look spread rapidly over the Frenchwoman's face, to be extinguished just as quickly. 'Ah oui,' she said. 'He will make a good father; perhaps you will have boys too, eventually'.

'Do you have children?' Therese asked after a few moments silence.

'Yes. I had a child, once' she replied. The intensity of the moment struck Therese forcibly. Something was being held back, some memory that was too painful to share.

' _Je suis vraiment désolé_ '.

' _Merci, ma chère._ The years have passed. I have a different life now. Now, you must rest'.

It was only in the quietness of her room that Therese reflected on the conversation and wondered about the Frenchwoman. Her manner seemed completely at odds to the brutality of the others; but there was something equally mysterious in that conversation. She seemed to know about Illya; to know about him, and even to understand him. Therese reached out her hand and placed it on the wall. He was somewhere in this building; somewhere near her. The little figure from the crib came into her mind. _Jesus, son of God, son of Mary, protect us this night. May we be delivered from all that is evil and, with our child, become a family, as you were in Nazareth._

In the middle of the night, Therese rolled on her side, to realise that the pain in her back had not gone away. A deeper rhythmic feeling in her abdomen was taking over, causing her mind to clear. To clear and to be free.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With time running out for Therese, can Napoleon rescue his partner from a living death?

'Illya. Illya! Are you there?'. There was a short pause.

'Of course'. Napoleon had decided to wait until first light before trying to contact his partner, wondering what state he might be in after his surgery. He hesitated, debating whether to ask about Dr Rondeau.

'I hope you've woken me from my beauty sleep for a good reason?'

'Yep. I managed to put the dampening field out of action last night, at least for a while'. There was a sigh from his communicator, which Napoleon ignored, hoping Illya might start talking about his conversation with Waverly.

'I know. Was that strictly necessary? You've probably blown your cover by doing that, you know'. It was obvious he was not going to talk, especially about her.

'Did they do a good job on you?'. Perhaps he'd tell him this way.

'I don't know until the bandages come off. At least I hope I don't look like my 'former girlfriend' as you so inaccurately describe her'.

'What, the Ukrainian? She was with you?'

'Sadly yes. I am afraid that Dr Engel has made rather an example of her, no doubt to make sure the other young ladies don't get any ideas'. Napoleon rubbed his head at the thought. He didn't need Illya to describe what she looked like; he could imagine.

'Mm. OK, I'm not going to ask you about your latest conquest, but it sounds as if she might be a tad kinder to you than old Winnifred, eh comrade?' Another sigh.

'Yes, she might, but Laurie is not performing today's surgery'. _Laurie._ He was revealing things without realising he was doing it, Solo thought.

'Listen Napoleon, the most important thing is that I can get off the table before 'old Winnifred' sticks her ice-pick into whatever is left of my brain. I think Tess is quite close; we're being held in the row of secure rooms between Engel's theatre and the showers; Sabi will know where. Tell Sabi that she needs to make sure the restraints are either malfunctioning or be able to free me when the fireworks begin. I think Tess is going to feign being in labour, but by the look of her after yesterday's little knockabout, she may need to stay in medical anyway'.

'I'll tell her'.

'And remember, Napoleon. Sabi is to look after Tess, and you are to take her away as quickly as possible, regardless of what happens to me'.

'It won't come to that, comrade. You need to be in on the baby pictures'. There was another sigh, or was it a groan, Napoleon thought.

'I don't think anyone would want pictures of me at the moment, somehow'.

Xxxxxxx

The far-off sounds of metal and footsteps awoke Therese from the fitful sleep she had endured on and off, through the night. The dull pain in her pelvis re-asserted its presence, and demanded attention. She looked at her watch and began to count, then rang the buzzer and waited. She could hear noises from the room next door; the higher-pitched voices of nurses, combined with lower, more familiar tones. She grabbed the buzzer and rung it insistently, desperate to get out of the room, to find out where he was.

At last, the door opened and one of the nurses entered, giving her a withering look in the process.

'I'm sorry, but I need to use the bathroom' Therese began, putting on the robe which was draped over the chair in the corner. The nurse had come forward and began to stop her, holding onto her arm as she went towards the door. With a determined pull, Therese wrenched free and got to the door in time to see her husband being lead towards the shower room, arms shackled behind his back. She was momentarily shocked by his appearance; the blond hair sticking up over the top of the bandages, and when he turned, the bruised and swollen face that stared at her with such longing and concern. He didn't look capable of rescuing himself, never mind her from this place, she thought to herself, standing there rooted to the spot.

'I'm alright, don't worry' she shouted after him, amazed at her own boldness. She saw his head turn again slightly, and the shadow of a smile light his features, before he was shoved through the door into the shower room. At that moment, she would have given anything to be in there with him, helping him. Reality, in the shape of her bladder, pulled her back.

'I'm really sorry, but I can't wait much longer' she said, meaning it this time. The nurse sighed and pointed along the corridor towards the treatment room, with its adjoining bathroom. Therese grabbed her towel and clothes, and headed away from her husband, the nurse struggling to keep up with her. With a sigh, she pushed open the door to the treatment room, and then passed through and into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door in the nurse's face. She heard her shouting something, but a sense of urgency drove her on.

In the shower, Therese was aware again of the pain in her abdomen and now understood it, breathing out gently as it washed through her. She

dried herself after the shower and was ready to return, wearing the black clothes with their secrets firmly attached, when she heard the door of the treatment room open, and a harsh voice shouting at the nurse. Therese hesitated, and then stood silently by the door. There was a brief period of quiet, followed by the sound of the door opening again. Therese gently seized the handle and turned it, opening the bathroom door a tiny fraction. She was expecting the nurse to return at any moment, so it would matter little if the door were found to be ajar, or so she hoped.

Through the crack in the door she was able to catch sight of three women, moving in and out of her sight. She was not surprised to see Dr Engel; hers was the harsh voice that must have ordered the nurse away for whatever reason, without finding out why she was there, it seemed. Li-Hua was also in the room. Therese frowned. It was early for her to be down here, even today. With her was the French doctor who had glued her head back together, and who, it seemed had sutured up Illya's wounds. She flattened herself against the wall as Li-Hua strode towards the door, but in time, she turned, her back to Therese.

'I hope this is worth it, Doctor; I didn't expect to be down here before eleven o'clock' Bolt began, tapping one leather boot against the hard tiled floor.

'Oh I think you'll find it very worthwhile, Granite' Engel replied, in her usual grating tones. As Bolt moved slightly, Therese had a direct view of Dr Engel. She was arranging what looked like a set of long needles onto a tray. Therese shuddered at the thought of what they might be used for.

'You remember I mentioned that one of the guards seemed familiar to me' Engel began. Therese held her belly to prevent herself from losing balance, as a giant hand began to constrict her heart. She needed to listen to the rest of the conversation, but a converse feeling of utter panic drove her to contemplate opening the door and running away as fast as she could. She took deep breaths to calm herself, only to hear the words she had already guessed being uttered.

'I have made some enquiries, and it appears that your guard Mercury is, I am afraid to say, an UNCLE agent'.

Bolt stood there for a moment, seemingly frozen to the spot. Therese noted the look on Engel's face; superior, even mocking. For once, it appeared, she had got the better of her leader. Bolt reached behind her for her radio transmitter.

'I knew that I had seen her somewhere before, but it was only this morning that it came to me' Engel continued, seeming to relish her story. 'She came round the prison in Berlin, claiming that she was a nurse. She was really looking for the Russian of course. When she realised that he wasn't there any more, she vanished'. Bolt began to speak into the transmitter, issuing orders.

'I wondered why there was no-one on duty this morning in the communications room' she said slowly, walking towards the examination couch. 'The question is, dear Doctor, how many other UNCLE agents are there secreted away amongst us?'.

Before anyone could reply, a nurse appeared at the door, her face as pale as the tiles covering the walls of the examination room.

'I told you' Engel screeched, 'we were not to be disturbed!'. The nurse held her ground, looking at the partially open door behind Bolt.

'I'm. . .I'm sorry Doctor, but … but.. _she's_ in there'. They all turned to where the nurse was pointing, as she continued to babble in a rather high-pitched, breathless manner. 'I tried to tell you, Doctor, but . . .'. The sentence ended as Bolt pulled open the door. Therese stood there, wincing as Bolt grabbed her arm and hauled her into the room.

She dragged a chair from the side and forced Therese to sit, leaning over her slightly, reptilian eyes slit like, as she appraised her.

'Don't you know that it's rude to listen in on other people's conversations?' she said, getting hold of Therese's hair and yanking it, her face a strange bilious colour, as she glared at the nurse. 'And why has she still got all this?' she spat out, her hand still firmly attached to the curly hair at the side of Therese's head. The nurse had turned a grey colour, rendered speechless by the woman in front of her.

'I told her not to remove it. It was not necessary'.

Marie-Laure walked over to face Bolt, her diminutive stature not overawed by the height of the woman she faced.

'Be careful, you will open her wound again' she said, putting her hand on Bolt's. A momentary hush replaced the clamour of the previous few minutes. Bolt released her hand and stood back. She sniffed slightly, her eyes directed venomously towards the petite Frenchwoman.

'If you insist, Doctor'. Marie-Laure looked at Therese for a few moments, then turned away and walked towards the door, pausing before leaving the room.

'If you don't mind, I will go and see my other patient now. If you mean to operate this morning, he will have to have the bandages removed, I think'. Therese saw Engel's face change at the mention of Illya, her eyes assuming a malevolent glint.

' _Ja_. He will need to be prepared. As to her, I suggest that you allow me to go ahead with the section immediately afterwards, _meine fuhrerin_. You will then be free to leave with your child and I will be able to follow later, once the surgery has been completed and they are fit to travel'.

'No; please, don't do that, I . . I don't want. . . and please don't hurt him!'. Therese rose slightly from the chair and looked round desperately from one woman to the other, but the only woman who had shown her any compassion had left the room. She sunk back down and began, quietly at first, to weep.

Xxxxxxxxx

Illya turned from the wall as the door opened, the crash of the metal trolley signalling some procedure that he was sure he wouldn't enjoy.

'Illya, _écoute, vite!_ Marie-Laure's face was staring into his. He looked round the room, but she had obviously got rid of any assistants of the unpleasant nursing variety. He pulled himself up as much as he could with his hands manacled to each side of the bed. Marie-Laure sat down and started to unwind the bandages round his head.

'I'm listening. What is it?' he said, picking up from her agitated manner. She noticed that he seemed different with her since last night. If he had been in contact with Waverly by some miracle, then he must know about her, but how much more did he know?

'Illy, they know about the girl, Mercury'. Illya stared at her, his lips drawn into a thin line.

'Are you sure?'

' _Bien sûr_. Dr Engel said that she had met her before, in Berlin'. In frustration, he struggled with the handcuffs, until she put her arms round him to calm him.

'Laurie, I have to warn her. If I don't, not only will her life be in danger, but this whole mission could be unravelled'. Marie-Laure let go of him and sat down on the bed again.

'I think you know about me' she said, looking at him sharply. 'How is that possible, Illy?'.

'I have something in my tooth, on the undamaged side of my mouth. Napoleon managed to disconnect the dampening field last night for long enough to enable Mr Waverly to speak to me'. He looked at her intently, then looked away. 'Laurie, we can't talk about this now' he said quietly.

'I know. Listen, Illy; I will try to help you if your colleague is discovered, but there is little that either of us can do at the moment, and I have to do this before the nurse returns'. She drew up the trolley and pushed him down on the bed, going over to the sink to wash her hands, before preparing the dressing kit. She leaned over him and removed the dressings, feeling his frustration and distress as he lay there.

'I saw your wife' she murmured, watching his face change with the mention of her name. 'She has a lot of fire, _non_? I can see that she has warmed up your frozen heart, eh, my Siberian virgin'. Illya sighed, then froze.

' _Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_ Illy?'

'Shh. Napoleon?'. Marie-Laure stepped back in surprise as a voice appeared to issue forth from her patient's mouth.

' _Siberian virgin_?'.

'Napoleon, now is not the time. Is Sabi with you?'

'No, but she's on her way; she should be here in about a minute or two. Why, are you missing your fellow member of the master race?'

Napoleon, Dr Engel has recognised her. You must tell her to either get off the island or hide somewhere until we can come for her. I suggest she tries the convent if all else fails'.

'OK, I'll . . ., just a second . .'

There was a silence followed by some sounds of disturbance and then, shockingly, the sound of a gun being fired.

Illya closed his mouth, and slammed his head back against the pillow. 'It appears that this former Siberian virgin will have to rely on you rather more than he had hoped' he muttered.

Xxxxxx

Napoleon judged that the room they were taken to must be adjoining Engel's treatment room, at the far end of the block from the rooms where almost certainly Illya and Therese were being held. It was utterly devoid of equipment, except for a narrow metal unit with shelves and doors, which was ranged along the wall behind them. The walls themselves and the floor were covered with large metal sheets, giving them the feeling of being in a large metal can. Along the centre of the ceiling, there was a long, metal pole supported on brackets, which hung down far enough for their arms to be attached leaving them upright but barely able to touch the floor. Rather, Napoleon thought, like carcasses in a butcher's cold store.

They had been made to strip after entering the room, the three guards training sub-machine guns menacingly in their direction. Sabi was already coming in for more abuse than the two men either side of her, but luckily of the verbal kind for the moment.

'I am so sorry, Napoleon, I should not have arranged to meet you this morning. Now, it will be impossible for me to prevent that witch turning him into …. into _Frankinstein_!' Sabi wailed, her pale eyes gazing at him, framed by the halo of cropped silvery blonde hair.

'Um, what exactly is the good doctor going to do with the Russian genius?' Torres drawled from her other side. 'I thought they wanted to preserve his mighty intellect for use in their laboratories?'.

'Oh _ja_ , they do' Sabi replied. 'It is disgusting! She has been experimenting on the children, and on some adults. It is a kind of, how do you say . . .'

'Lobotomy?' Napoleon offered, cringing at the thought.

' _Ja, das ist richtig'_ Sabi said, 'only it is worse. They have some sort of drug they have developed in their so-called laboratories. So, the doctor makes a big hole in Illyusha's brain, and injects the drug directly into the frontal lobe'. Napoleon screwed up his face at the thought. Anything to do with brains made him feel queasy.

'So' Sabi continued, 'the drug is designed not to damage the clever part of his brain, if you see what I mean, but the emotional part, Napolina'.

'I didn't think he had any emotions' Torres muttered, getting a massive glare from Sabi.

'Darling, he will lose the ability to feel love; you know, he won't want to . .'

'Yes, got the message' Napoleon replied. 'So in other words, he'll just be an emotionless robot ready to do THRUSH's bidding'.

'Somewhat similar to when he was an emotionless robot ready to do UNCLE's bidding' Torres added, now eliciting a frown from Napoleon. He finally picked up the vibes and added, 'that was before he met the lovely Therese of course'.

'Well, the only scrap of comfort we can take from all this is that Vaz and Fernando are still at large, and that the emotionless robot has some help, I think, in the form of an old flame' Napoleon whispered.

'Old flame?, how will a fire help him?' Sabi responded, with her usual wide-eyed expression.

'No, it means an old lover' Torres whispered. 'It seems the Russian's kept a few things even from you, Napoleon'. Napoleon shrugged. He had certainly never mentioned her, although he was notoriously difficult to extract that sort of information from anyway. Napoleon was still determined to get to the bottom of the 'Siberian virgin' comment, but that could be saved up for a more convenient moment. Right now, they faced an embarrassing, even painful few hours.

Their conversation was silenced by the throwing open of the door. The remaining guard inside the room stiffened as Li-Hua Bolt strode past, standing awkwardly by the locked door as if she would rather be outside it. Bolt walked slowly over to the three UNCLE agents, circling them, touching their arms and legs from behind with something hard none of the agents could see.

' _Three green bottles hanging on the_ wall'. Her voice, smooth and hard, reverberated on the metal surfaces of the room. Napoleon heard a click, then the unmistakeable swish of a baton being extended.

' _Three green bottles hanging on the wall'_ the emotionless voice repeated the childish song, now stroking their legs with the extended baton. Napoleon twisted his head slightly. Before he could react, she had pushed between him and Sabi, and brought the baton down across his genitals, and then against Torres'. The need to double up with the pain was so intense, the two men tried to raise their legs up to their abdomen, their bodies swinging into Sabi with the force of the blows.

'Now, Mr Solo, perhaps you'd like to tell me where the other green bottles are hanging?' her soulless voice murmured behind his ear now, the tip of the baton edging between his legs and stroking his testicles.

'Sorry, we're just a happy trio; well quartet, if you include Mr Kuryakin' Napoleon heaved, struggling to speak with the effort of being strung up. There was a hiatus; he could feel her behind him, withdrawing the baton slowly from between his legs. Sabi began to swing a little, struggling with the manacles that were fastened onto the bar above their heads.

Without warning, the baton was pulled round the front of her neck, Bolt pressing mercilessly on her windpipe as she thrashed about.

'Perhaps Miss Klose can help me' the insidious voice continued, yanking the baton, causing Sabi to crash towards Napoleon.

'We . . are. . alone' she gasped, gulping as the baton was withdrawn. Again, silence ensued, only the gasps and grunts of the agents heard, their bodies reflected grotesquely on the metallic surfaces of the room.

 _And if one green bottle should accidentally fall. . ._ ' The baton clattered to the ground and rolled away, momentarily distracting Sabi and Napoleon from the sudden movement of their tormentor. Instantly, Solo's ears were assaulted by the sound of gunfire, Sabi's screaming extending the deafening vibrations inside his head. He jerked his head and swung round. He could see Bolt standing at the end of the group, gun in hand. Torres' body hung lifelessly, his blood spattered on Sabi, and dripping slowly onto the shiny surface of the floor.

' _They'll be two green bottles hanging on the wall'_.

Bolt waited, as the stunned guard hammered on the door for it to be unlocked.

'Leave him there' she ordered. 'It will help them to reflect on what they have said, and its consequences. After Ocean's surgery has been completed, perhaps we'll have another discussion'.

'Ocean?' Napoleon spluttered.

xxxxxxxxx

The guards poured out of the warehouse and fanned out along the harbour side, several of them jumping onto the boats anchored along the wall, signalling to each other as buildings and boats were systematically searched. Vaz looked at his watch, his brow furrowed.

'What is going on?' Fernando's voice muttered in his ear.

'Well, I have a bad feeling in my water that the delectable Miss Bolt has discovered the three amigos in the gardener's cottage' Vaz replied, squeezing out between two packing cases, Fernando following him closely. They had been lucky, hearing the warehouse's doors being thrown open in time to retreat to the empty packing case they had hidden in the night before.

'Well' Vaz continued, looks like Plan B is in operation'.

'And what's that?'

'It's when we become heroes, dear boy' Fernandes answered. 'If Napoleon and the others have been captured, then our job, once we start things off here, is to free the ladies, and get them to safety. I think we can assume that the boat is going to be off limits for the time being, so I've got a little idea where to ship them for the time being, till we can liberate the other three and _La famille Kuryakin_ of course'.

Vaz took his communicator out of his pocket.

'Open Channel P'. 'Sister Catherine?'.

xxxxxx

The noise of the gun was indistinct, but to someone who had heard it hundreds of times before, it was unmistakeable. Illya stiffened on the bed, automatically turning towards where he thought the sound was coming from. It must have come from the other end of the corridor, he assumed, probably beyond Engel's theatre, where he would be almost certainly heading before very long. He tried to keep his imagination in check, but it was difficult not to think that something unpleasant was taking place at the other end of the building, probably involving his partner. There was no way of knowing now whether Vaz and Fernando had also been discovered, or whether the occupants of the room were being persuaded to reveal what they knew. Bolt must know that their conditioning would make it difficult to interrogate them using drugs; however, there were other ways. She might hesitate to hurt Sabi, but the men were another matter. It now looked as if he might have to do more than just rescue his wife; but without Sabi, everything would now depend on whether Marie-Laure would be prepared to help the man who had deserted her long years before.

He turned over in his mind the conversation he had had with Waverly. It was conducted on a professional level, but Illya could tell that the old man was concerned about him, and that he was leaving it up to him to decide whether he should share the information about Marie-Laure with his partner.

'You remember Dr Rondeau's husband, Mr Kuryakin?' Waverly had said. He had. Phillipe Rondeau had been a lecturer in the Surgical Department at the Paris-Sud Medical School, where Marie-Laure had studied Medicine. He was ten years older than her, and the exact opposite of Illya in every possible way. He was tall, well built, with dark eyes, black oily hair and rather coarse features. Apart from his work, his main interests seemed to be women and cars, both of which he treated similarly, Illya always thought, treating the women in his life as possessions that he could enjoy, and then discard in favour of the latest model. It was really no surprise to Illya that Rondeau was a THRUSH employee.

'According to Dr Rondeau, her husband had put pressure on her to begin working for THRUSH' Waverly continued. When she refused, he took their child, telling her that she would only see the child again if she cooperated. On the way to the secret laboratory complex in the South of France, the car crashed into the central barrier on the motorway. Both Rondeau and the child were killed instantly, it seems. Consumed with grief, Dr Rondeau decided to take on THRUSH herself, working for them until she could find a way to damage them fatally from the inside. Apparently, she met Miss Bolt at Central, and learned that you were being held. It appears, Mr Kuryakin', he had added, 'that you are important to her in some way, which you may be able to use to both your, and UNCLE's advantage'.

Illya had groaned inwardly. It was blindingly obvious that Waverly expected him to recruit Marie-Laure to some sort of role within UNCLE, even allowing her to continue working for THRUSH for the time being. There was something about the story of her husband and child that made him uneasy. He cast back in his mind, trying to work out dates and times, calculating how old the child might have been when they died. If Marie-Laure was nursing a hatred of THRUSH in her breast, could she not also harbour resentments against him?

'I will do my best sir' he had replied. 'Dr Rondeau would certainly be an asset to UNCLE'. He almost laughed at what he had said. After what had happened, she might now be the difference between life and death, at least life as he understood it now.

There was a jangling of keys at the door and immediately the room seemed full of women; women unlocking the manacles holding him to the bed and yanking him over onto a trolley; women tying him down again, whilst others stood there, weapons at the ready. But no women that he really wanted to see. No Marie-Laure, and more importantly, sadly, no Therese. His head began to throb slightly, and he shook it slightly to clear his thoughts. If something didn't happen in the next half-hour, then these women would be the last ones he would look at, as a man looks at a woman, he thought. Illya's hands clenched at the idea of it; then he was suddenly aware of the texture of his nails. He had momentarily forgotten; an image of Therese bending over him and carefully painting on the colourless liquid filled his thoughts. He smiled grimly to himself as the trolley was spun into the ante-room of the theatre and the trolley was anchored there, awaiting its final journey into the next room. The problem was, that he had no idea how powerful the explosive in the varnish was; if he used it on the manacles to free himself, then what would be left of his hands afterwards?

Dr Engel's face leered over him, momentarily expunging all other thoughts from his mind. Illya couldn't help himself; the phrase 'old Winnifred' that Napoleon had used came into his mind and he began to smile.

'Oh, I'm so glad you're in such good humour, Mr Kuryakin' she sneered. 'I don't suppose that emotions like that will be bothering you in the near future'. Illya sighed, glancing round the small room to note the other occupants. His eyes connected with a pair of soft dark brown ones, the rest of her face hidden behind a surgical cap and mask.

'You're lucky' Dr Engel droned on, 'Dr Rondeau has volunteered to give you some anaesthetic to control your movements during the operation. After all, we don't want you jumping round the table, do we?

'That's very considerate of you all' Illya replied sarcastically. 'If you don't mind, Doctor, perhaps, for my benefit, you could explain exactly what you're going to do?'. There was no sign of even a distant explosion; at the risk of being bored to death, Illya had to delay her in some way, and usually these people loved to go on at great length about what they were going to do. The Nazi doctor was obviously no exception.

'I would be delighted, especially since you have such a love for medicine' she replied. Illya grimaced. At least she had a sense of humour; of sorts.

He could see Marie-Laure drawing up several injections at the side of him, while Engel started to lecture him on her surgical techniques. A slight feeling of panic began to rise in his chest at the thought of being anaesthetised, and what that would do to his chances of escaping. Engel continued to give him a blow by blow account of the history of psychosurgery and the work of American surgeons in the field.

'However' she almost shouted, 'I have been able to take their work so much farther, because, Mr Kuryakin, I am not held back by their pathetic Judaeo-Christian ethics'.

'I presume you mean by that comment, that it doesn't bother you to experiment on innocent children to achieve your ends' Illya replied caustically. She glared at him , her eyes darting round her head in a similar way, Illya thought, to the circling hands.

'Those low-brained Spanish peasants should be honoured to donate themselves to the cause of medical research' she screeched, now worryingly beginning to position his head, bringing a broad strap across the bed to hold it still.'Their deaths, and the research of the chemists at Bolt Pharmaceuticals, mean that I have now perfected, I believe, the ultimate psychosurgical technique. I am now able, by both inserting a canula into the prefrontal cortex, and injecting this new preparation directly into the brain, to completely remove love, sexual desire, empathy, and all the other pathetic emotions which people like you seem to value, leaving the intellect intact. And don't worry, Mr Kuryakin, there will be no scar. After Dr Rondeau has administered the anaesthesia, you will be completely relaxed and won't worry about the needle that I am about to insert through your eye socket'.

'That's very comforting' Illya replied. I was worried I might have to lose some more hair'.

'Your vanity will be another emotion that will be consigned to the dustbin of history, dear Ocean'.

Illya bristled at the sound of the emotionless voice behind his ear. Bolt came into sight, a supercilious expression covering her face as she stared at him. He noticed that she had a pistol tucked into the back of her trousers, and was holding something in her hand.

'Your former partner is also very reluctant to shed her feminine appearance' Bolt continued. 'Perhaps Dr Engel might like to have another patient to test her new technique on. And of course, we have your colleagues to play with as well'. Illya looked away, or tried to, the band holding his head tightly, rubbing the wound on his forehead. A sharp prick in his arm jerked his head back again; Bolt was still standing there staring at him, a slight sneer now adorning her rather jaundiced looking features. He couldn't imagine that Bolt was trying to gain mental control over him, presuming that it was her who had just injected him with something, though he couldn't think what.

' _Excusez-moi_. I need to prepare him for the operation'. Illya felt almost relieved that something was happening. The other women stepped back, Engel going into the theatre to scrub up and Bolt disappearing to take her place in the corridor which was fitted with large windows giving a perfect view of any operations being performed. Marie-Laure released the band holding his head, her face a mask behind which any emotions she might be feeling at this moment were hidden.

'He won't need this by the time I have finished' she said to the nurse behind his head. 'He needs a surgical cap to keep the hair off his face'. The nurse brought a cap and tied it tightly onto Illya's head, forcing the incipient fringe backwards under cover. As she stepped back , Marie-Laure bent close over Illya.

' _Écoute bien_ , Illy. This is not as it seems' she whispered, showing him one of the syringes. But to them, it must appear so, huh?'

'What is it?'. Marie-Laure jumped slightly as the nurse spoke, but quickly regained her composure.

'Oh, it's something they've been working on at Central' she replied. 'They used to shock them into unconsciousness for these lobotomies, but this', she added, 'is a combination, you understand, of a tranquilizer and a local anaesthetic. He will not jump about, and he won't care anyway'. She sniffed derisively, the nurse smiling and then looking towards Illya with a rather lascivious expression on her face.

'It's almost a pity' she said, as if Illya wasn't there. 'Don't tell Miss Bolt, but some of us nurses think he is really a dish'.

'You think so?' Marie-Laure replied, staring down, her dark eyes drilling into him. ' _Peut-être._ Perhaps _'._

CHAPTER 18

The room felt hot and oppressive, as Therese stopped pacing for a moment, and beat her hand against the wall in frustration. She checked her watch again. She had pinned herself against the door when she'd heard the door to Illya's room being opened and the clang of the trolley being pushed into the room, and then, a little later, out again. Sinking to her knees, she put her hands on the floor and let the baby dangle underneath her to relieve the pain in her back, as she considered her situation.

Calmly, Therese pictured her husband, and the other agents whom she knew were near. As each person came into her mind, she tried to hold them there, asking for protection. As she leant forward, she could feel the spikes of her necklace poking into her; she sat back and pulled at one of the little cone shapes. Surprisingly easily, it came off and lay in her hand, like a tiny toy; innocent appearing. Therese pursed her lips. As far as she understood, there was to be some sort of explosion which would presage an attempt to rescue her. Her hand closed on the cone as she thought back on the last months of waiting. She had never considered herself to be passive or timid, and despite periods of profound depression and tears, had held herself together pretty well. Now, she had a choice. She could sit here, worrying about Illya, waiting for him or someone else to burst through the door, or she could take matters into her own hands.

She would wait, then, for the explosion. And then she would act.

xxxxxx

'Sabi?' Napoleon could feel Sabi near to him, but she had been silent for some time, occasionally moving just to find some relief from the agony of hanging for so long. If he stretched, he could just rest his feet on the ground, and he imagined Sabi could do the same.

' _Ja_ '. The room was almost entirely dark; thin shards of light from the blinds high up at one end of the room, were the only light penetrating their steel prison. Napoleon shifted his weight slightly and edged closer to her.

'Napoleon, I have something on my hands, but you will have to lift me up a little' she murmured. Napoleon frowned, wondering what on earth she was talking about, but decided he didn't have the energy to argue. In order to prevent their hands being injured by the manacles, they had been forced to hold the pole above their heads, but doing this caused them to swing free. Swing or slip. Napoleon gripped the pole firmly now, and swinging his legs, gripped Sabi between them. She yelped slightly until she understood what he was doing, as, with great difficulty, he lifted her up. He could hear her scrabbling at something on the pole, then shouting at him to move along towards the end where they knew Torres was still hanging. After a few seconds, there was a relatively small explosion, the noise of which reverberated round the metal walls of the room. Instantly, the pole came away from the ceiling and Napoleon and Sabi slid downwards, falling into a heap on the floor.

'How did you manage that?' Napoleon gasped, lying flat on the floor to enjoy the relief of not being hung up.

' _Sehr gut, nein_?' Sabi replied excitedly, lying next to him. 'I gave some to Tess, so Blondie should be armed with it too'.

'Armed with what?' Napoleon asked, sitting up slowly. He could just make out the outline of her head, the blonde hair, like his partner's, glowing faintly in the dark. She grabbed his hand and put it on hers. Her nails felt slightly textured, like very fine sandpaper.

'It's nail polish, darling. Not the red variety you like your Josefina to wear. No, this is the red-hot variety, no?'. Napoleon still couldn't quite understand how nail polish could cause an explosion, but the thought of the Russian wearing it was something which could be stored for a later, interesting conversation, he thought.

He stood up gingerly and helped Sabi to her feet. Although the explosion seemed loud to them, it obviously hadn't alerted anyone else to the room, and there was no-one above them either, to witness the gaping hole in the ceiling. Napoleon worried slightly that there were no guards near. Perhaps they were elsewhere; he didn't like to think what they might be doing, or seeing done.

'Now, we need something to wear' he muttered, and we need to do something else before we go any further'. Fortuitously, they had been left, minus weapons, in a corner of the room. Napoleon struggled into his clothes in the semi-darkness, then opened the blinds fractionally to allow more light to penetrate the room. He heard Sabi gasp.

The body of the Spanish agent continued to hang from the now dangerously angled pole. They could see now the hole in the ceiling where the explosive had blown away the fixing, leaving the pole hanging down one end, and straining to come away the other end from the remaining bracket. Napoleon lifted Torres' legs slightly and slid the body down the pole and onto the ground. They carried him to the side, where Sabi covered him with his clothes. For a few moments they stood looking at him, before Solo walked to the wall where the blinds were.

'Unfortunately, the window's too high up, and too narrow to escape easily' he said, staring at the narrow slits along the top of the metal wall.

'And we don't know if Vaz and Fernando are still free and . . .'

Sabi's question was answered by an enormous boom coming from somewhere outside the room, followed by a shock wave which shook the walls of the room slightly.

'I think they're still free' Napoleon remarked, smiling grimly.

xxxxxxxx

The injections into his face were both painful and alarming. Illya gripped the side of the bed, straining on the leather restraints which held him to the bed across his head, shoulders and legs. He wanted to believe that Marie-Laure was not in the act of betraying him, but the sensations creeping across his face made him think otherwise. He tried to breathe normally, locking eyes with her as she leaned across him, but it was impossible to read the expression on her face as she concentrated on injecting the golden liquid into his facial muscles, and then into his arm. He could just see Dr Engel standing behind her, the mysterious circling movements of her hands in full flow.

'His face and surrounding tissues will be completely anaesthetised' Marie-Laure said in a loud voice, 'and this will ensure he is completely tranquilised, without needing to paralyse him'.

Illya's tongue felt thick inside his mouth, in fact his whole mouth felt strange and disconnected from his body. He struggled to remain calm, and think about what Marie-Laure had told him. Despite the horrible feeling of his face and mouth, he suddenly realised that his mind was quite clear. The so-called tranquiliser whatever it was, had not done its job. He decided, however, that he needed to demonstrate that it had. He rolled his eyes slightly to the top of his head, and fluttered his eyelids. He could hear Dr Engel talking, then coming closer to the table.

'Mr Kuryakin, try and say something'. At least he didn't have to pretend this bit, he thought. He attempted something very rude in Russian but it just came out as a series of vague, jumbled sounds from his mouth.

He could feel Marie-Laure very close to his head now. The restraint holding him was vibrating oddly, only noticeable to Illya whose head it pressed into. He attempted, and failed a smile. Marie-Laure moved away slightly, now standing near his shoulder. He felt the same odd friction for a few moments, then she moved back and bent down over his head. He heard the words ' _bonne chance'_ whispered into his ear, as she drew back behind Dr Engel.

'Now, Mr Kuryakin, we can proceed' the sharp, malicious voice began. 'What is it that the Americans say? – oh j _a_. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life'. Illya felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. If something was going to happen, it needed to happen very soon indeed, before Dr Engel could insert the first needle into his eye socket. Otherwise, he thought, he would welcome a genuine tranquilising injection. She had turned away from him now, instructing the nurse to hand her something. When she turned back, his stomach lurched. In her hand she appeared to have a very large canula type needle of a bore the size of which he didn't even like to imagine. He could see that she was going to attach something to it which would mean she could not only make a large opening, but inject through that opening as well.

'Dr Engel, _qu'est-ce que c'est_? What is it, and how does it work?' Engel turned slightly, surprised by the interruption. Illya prayed hard that she would grant him a few extra minutes, but she just turned back.

'You will see, Dr Rondeau, you will see exactly what it is very shortly'. She came very close now to Illya's head, her hand on the band covering his forehead, her colourless eyes staring into his fluttering ones.

'Goodbye Mr Kuryakin. No doubt this will be the last time I will need to use that name to address you. I look forward to many years of productive work from you, under my direction of course'. She leaned back slightly to position the canula as a gigantic shock wave shattered the glass at the side of the theatre. From the broken window, it was plain to see what had caused the explosion. Where the warehouse had stood, some distance away, a pillar of flame several hundred feet high arced up into the sky like a mighty beacon lighting up the harbour area. Other buildings, closer at hand, also seemed to be on fire, and sirens wailed, protesting the damage. In the corridor, a couple of guards lay on the floor; Bolt was nowhere to be seen.

With a massive grunt, Illya sat up, the restraints on his head and shoulders flying back where they had been cut by Marie-Laure.

' _Halt_!'. He felt the coldness of a gun barrel pressed against his forehead. Engel had leapt forward, shoving him down again, her eyes two sharp grey points either side of the disfigured nose dominating her face. Behind her, Illya just caught sight of Marie-Laure. She had been thrown to the ground by the blast, but she had got to her knees, and was holding her hands to her ears, shaking her head. She looked up suddenly, her face stricken by what she saw happening at the table. The nurse lay on the floor in front of the shattered window, her body covered in a mass of glass shards.

'Not so fast, Mr Kuryakin' Engel screamed in his face. 'You will _not_ escape me, I have waited too long. Hold him!'. Two hands rammed his head back against the table. With difficulty he swivelled his good eye back to see his captor. Elena Fedorenko's mutilated face greeted him, the single eye grotesquely fixing him with a hard stare. He could hear the explosions continuing in the background, as Engel drew near again, the needle nearing his eye as she forced back his eyelid to receive it.

' _Nyet!_ ' A sudden lull in the noise outside the room was reflected inside. Engel froze, her face contorted by rage, as Elena grabbed the canula, and threw herself onto the German. A bloodcurdling scream was followed closely by a single shot. Illya sat up for the second time and scrambled off the table onto the floor on unsteady feet, suddenly aware of Marie-Laure at his side.

The two women were laid entangled in each other, blood seeping onto the floor in a viscous pool. Illya pulled back Elena and supported her in his arms, the dark stain issuing from her abdomen indicating to him that her life was slipping away. He looked down at the Nazi doctor. The crude instrument intended for the destruction of his personality was now embedded straight through her left eye, her face taking on the appearance of a nightmarish archer's target. Illya glanced at Marie-Laure, who was shaking her head at him, and held Elena as gently as he could, bending over her slightly, and brushing her forehead with his numbed lips as her eye gradually darkened and finally she slumped against him.

'Illy, we must go' Marie-Laure whispered, her arm on his shoulders; 'you have a wife and baby to rescue, eh, _mon brave_?'. Illya nodded and gently lay the Ukrainian girl on the floor. He looked down at himself and sighed. Running around trying to rescue anyone in a theatre gown didn't appeal at all. He looked round but couldn't see anything even remotely suitable to wear; only Engel's gun seemed remotely useful to him. Marie-Laure took his hand firmly and started to virtually drag him out of the room into the corridor, now a half-demolished mass of glass and plaster.

Illya picked his way along the corridor, past the closed door of his former room until he came to a sudden stop outside the place where he knew Therese had been confined.

' _Mon dieu, qu'est-ce que se passe?'_ Marie-Laure exclaimed, staring at the room. Where the door had been, all that remained was a charred lump of wood, the door frame similarly blackened. Inside, there was no-one to be seen. Illya had an idea of what might have happened, but for now, he couldn't share his thoughts with anyone except himself; even facial expressions were proving a challenge. He shrugged at Marie-Laure, and came out of the room. Whatever had happened to Therese, he had to make a systematic search now until he found her. The knowledge that Bolt had disappeared filled him with uneasy thoughts, and he strained for any sound of a helicopter taking off, as they continued along the corridor towards the treatment room.

The orderliness of the room had been ripped apart by the action of the explosives and the consequent fire. Their feet crunched across the broken glass, a faint breeze blowing across, investing a sheet hanging from one of the examination couches with a sail-like quality, adding to the eeriness of the place. Marie-Laure walked over to a cupboard, and pulling a bag down from the shelf, started to fill it with items from the room, running from side to side with swift steps. She stopped and showed him, smiling at his ignorance.

'We'll need these if your daughter is to be born safely' she said, closing the bag. 'And don't worry, the analgesia should begin to wear off soon, so you can ask me all your questions then, _d'accord_? Illya nodded, then immediately put his hand over her mouth. Distant sounds continued in the background, but a noise nearer at hand had attracted his attention. They looked at each other, then turned as the door blasted open at the end of the room, the downdraft causing the metal blinds to rattle discordantly at the non-existent window. Illya raised his gun and walked forward, keeping Marie-Laure behind him, the dust beginning to settle as they crossed the threshold.

'Um, you wouldn't happen to have the key for these, would you?'. Illya managed a deep groan and lowered his gun. 'Well?' Napoleon continued, holding out his arms. Sabi leapt forward and managed somehow to kiss Illya without the use of her hands.

'You are alive!' she shouted joyfully, jumping up and down a little to Illya's consternation. He looked behind him at the astonished face of Marie-Laure, then back to the other two.

'Cat got your tongue, comrade?' Napoleon said, staring at the silent figure standing there rather expressionless, only the one deep blue eye twinkling somewhat in the damaged face. He jumped back a little as a petite figure emerged from behind his partner.

' _Monsieur_ , he cannot speak _a ce moment_ '; I am afraid that I had to anaesthetise his face in order to convince my colleague that he was, shall we say, 'under her control', so perhaps you can introduce yourselves, and then I will see if we can help you to escape your predicament, _non_?

_'Ah oui, bien sur, madame; Je m'appelle Napoleon Solo, and je vous presente Mademoiselle Sabina Klose, a votre service'._

Illya rolled his one working eye as Napoleon, in fluent French continued to introduce himself and Sabi to Marie-Laure.

' _Napoleon! Quel nom_!' Marie-Laure replied, laughing, Illya slightly squirming by her side. As they were now fully engaged in conversation about what had happened in the operating theatre, Illya disappeared for a few moments, much to Sabi's consternation.

'Napoleon! Where has he gone?' she whispered, interrupting Marie Laure's quite lurid description of the fight between Dr Engel and Elena Fedorenko. Napoleon looked up and shrugged his shoulders then nodded in the direction of the doorway. Illya was returning, holding something in his hand. He motioned to them to hold out their arms, and then with the key he had liberated from a fallen guard in the corridor, proceeded to free them from their shackles. As he was unlocking Sabi, she noticed his eyes change a little.

'Bolt tied us up here' she whispered, 'then she shot Diego when we wouldn't tell her anything. Illyusha, come here'. Rubbing her wrists, she knelt down, lifting the clothes from on top of Torres' body. 'I know he's not your size, but you can't run about like that' she said quietly. 'And he doesn't need them now'.

They left the room quietly, as if the reminder of their dead colleague had suddenly concentrated their minds on the urgency of the situation. Diego's workman's dungarees and shirt rather drowned Illya, making him look about sixteen, Napoleon thought, but were preferable to the more revealing surgical gown. He turned round to see if the others were following at the end of the corridor, revealing a slowly returning expression of concentration and even excitement on his face. All at once he came to a sudden halt and opened his mouth, pointing inside. With great difficulty, he forced himself to speak.

'Vaz'.

Napoleon leapt forward and came up close to Illya's mouth, putting his arm round his shoulders and frowning slightly at the awkwardness of the position.

'Anybody there old man?' the Indian's voice boomed out.

'Vaz, the old man can't quite string two words together at the moment, so you'll have to make do with me'. Napoleon answered.

'Is he in one piece then?' There was a slightly shocked silence before he continued. 'They didn't cut out his tongue did they?'. Illya sighed.

'Er, no, but he'll give you the complete story later. Now, can you bring me up to speed on the situation, as we need to go and look for Tess'. Napoleon could see Illya's discomfort in the way he jigged around, his eyes somehow contriving to communicate his distress and frustration.

'OK chaps. You'll be pleased to know that we've got the girls rounded up and we're going to load them on a jolly little wagon and nip up to the convent for a little while. The ladies in leather seem to have scooted off to the harbour _en masse_. There appears to be quite a little sideshow going on down there. You wouldn't know anything about that would you, old chap?'. Napoleon smiled and nodded at Illya.

'Ah yes, that means the cavalry's arrived' he replied. 'However, as they'll be blockading the port for a while to sort out the girls, you're right to take them up to the Convent. Sister Catherine know you're coming?'

'Yes, and we can hang on for a bit if you want a lift' Vaz replied.

' _Excusez-moi_. We will need to find Therese soon, and she will need to be somewhere safe very soon, Napoleon' Marie-Laure interrupted, holding up the bag.

'Just a minute Vaz'. Napoleon stepped back and looked at Illya. 'Is she with Bolt?' he said. Illya nodded, slightly shrugging his shoulders.

'She was there watching the operation' Marie-Laure said, 'then she disappeared, and Therese was not in her room. Someone had blown off the door – ' _bof_ ' she added, throwing her hands out theatrically.

'Right, hang on Vaz, I'm sending you Dr Rondeau here and Sabi, while Illya and I go rescue the damsel in distress'.

'We need the tapes, Napoleon. All the information about the drugs and the girls, is on them'.

They all stared, as Illya could hear Vaz asking him if he was back in the land of the talking. Then Marie-Laure ran forward and began to massage his face, carefully avoiding the side with the broken teeth.

'Ah, I told you Illy, that it would wear off!' she gushed, hugging him.

' _Illy_?' Napoleon grinned.

xxxxxx

When the door blew, Therese came out from behind her mattress to face the last person she wanted to see, standing in the doorway, seemingly undamaged from the explosions that had rocked the building only minutes beforehand. Bolt didn't speak, just pointed her gun as Therese walked towards her, feeling the dig of the gun's barrel in her back all the way back to the house. The vague pains that had started early in the morning had now become stronger, and regularly spaced, causing her to gasp slightly and breathe through her mouth as she was marched along. Far from liberating her, the incident with the door seemed to have put her squarely back in Bolt's hands; away from Illya, now obviously in labour, and not knowing whether he was alive even, never mind able to help her.

There were still guards in the house, and Bolt barked orders at them; Therese closed her eyes at the mention of the helicopter. She was hustled up the stairs to the large living room on the first floor, pushed against the wall, and her hands tied behind her. Bolt spun her round and stuck tape across her mouth, then dragged her onto the sofa, forcing her to lie down, her head rammed into the cushions, while she was pinned onto the sofa using more of the tape. In the unnatural quiet, she could hear Bolt at the end of the room where her desk was, opening and shutting drawers rapidly, and turning on the large machine with the whirring tapes which stood in a small ante-room.

She was suddenly close by, Therese realised.

'Your former partner is dead' she said baldly. The others have been incinerated in the blast, allowing us to leave by air whilst they concern themselves with their little sea battle at the harbour. Fortunately, I have all the research completed here on the tapes, ready to be used at our new home, dear Storm'. As Therese struggled to move, she came closer, whispering in her ear, her long fingers touching her neck. 'By the way, did your partner tell you about our new drug? I thought not. When Diamond is born, I'll demonstrate it to you. Oh, by the way, unlike Dormiben, it doesn't have an antidote'.

Therese felt another contraction begin to sweep across her; she had imagined this moment many times when she had first known she was pregnant; lying in bed in some non-threatening hospital, or even better, at home, with Illya's anxious face nearby, perhaps some other family members or friends giving reassurance. And then, the joy of the baby. Joy, of any sort, seemed a dim reality now. There were too many things to take in; Illya, the baby, her own life even seemed threatened with destruction. She struggled to breathe through her nose, sensing the other woman moving away from her towards the office end of the room. She could feel the rope biting into her wrists, her hands crossed awkwardly behind her. Her fingers were still fairly mobile though, and she was able to feel the tiny blade sewn into the cuff of her blouse. After a few minutes of manipulating, Therese freed the little blade and began to saw away at the rope, twisting back so that her hands were not so obvious to Bolt.

She felt the rope slacken. Cautiously, she moved her hands to the front, managing to manoeuvre them despite the tape holding her onto the sofa. She gently pulled the tape away from her face, then slid her hands into the waistband of her trousers, drawing out a miniature mask. _This isn't meant to be like this. He's supposed to use these things, not me_ she thought, as she opened the hem of her blouse and pulled out a small soft bag of colourless liquid.

Grasping the tiny blade, she cut the tape holding her head down, nearly crying out loud as it pulled at her hair. Craning her neck round, she caught sight of Bolt through the door into the ante-room, putting a large spool of magnetic tape into a large attaché case, then returning to the machine to remove the other. She slid along the sofa, cutting the other tapes, then sliding onto the floor backwards before standing up. She could see Bolt just putting the second tape into the case, then turning, her gun sitting between them on the desk. There was a moment's hesitation, before Bolt moved forwards for the gun. Stuffing the mask onto her face, Therese threw the bag onto the floor. At once the liquid burst out, forming a gas which had Bolt grabbing her throat and falling forwards, reaching for the gun, her eyes turned blood red with hatred of the girl standing frozen before her. Therese tried to make herself run but she was rooted to the spot, her back screaming at her now to lie down somewhere. Bolt's hand reached across the table, her fingers curling round the gun, as Therese put her hand up to her neck, involuntarily pulling off one of the cones. Bolt's hand was now on the gun, raising it in her direction. There was a sudden flash followed by a tremendous bang as the desk seemed to rise up in the air and catapult Bolt backwards. It was only then that Therese realised that she had thrown the cone.

The noise seemed to startle her into action, as she ripped out another bag and threw it on the floor before she threw open the door, standing behind it as the guards ran in straight into a wall of gas and fire. Therese ran along the corridor headlong into somebody else running in her direction. She screamed, struggling and fighting her assailant until he shouted in her ear,

' _Teresita_ , control yourself please'. She pushed herself back from him slightly, then fell into his arms again, sobbing.

'You are alive, you are alive!' She could now smell the scent of his body, his hair, everything that told her who he was. Illya pushed back the hair from her face and wiped the tears gently away.

'Of course I'm alive; now come on, I think you have a date with the maternity ward'. She clung onto him again, noticing Napoleon rushing up the stairs now, carrying two large sub-machine guns.

'You freed her already' he shouted, holding a machine gun in both hands in a way that reminded Therese of someone in one of those macho films Frankie seemed to enjoy.

'Um, it appears she did that herself' Illya replied, smiling at Therese, as they took a more gentle step down the staircase than when she had arrived. Above them there was a huge bang, followed by a rolling wave of fire across the landing. Therese looked up, then across at Illya.

'Well, I rammed one of those cone things in the door and it did a good job, so I threw one at her table, then I just sort of threw the rest of them on the floor. They must have caught fire, I suppose'. Illya rolled his eyes heavenwards.

'There were about fifteen of those you threw down' he shouted above the din. 'I only usually use one'.

'Oh' Therese replied. 'Whoops'.

xxxxxxxx

The construction of the house made it highly combustible. As they reached the front door, there was a horrific grinding noise, followed swiftly by a tremendous crash, as the floor gave way, causing a giant wave of dust to sweep towards them. The guards left alive had responded with alacrity to the explosion on the first floor, running down the paths at full tilt towards the harbour in the distance. Illya guided Therese down the path past the ruined medical buildings, wondering why she appeared to have wide duct tape stuck over her hair and across her chest. Every so often, she gripped his arm and halted momentarily, breathing out gently through her mouth as he looked at her worriedly.

'What is the matter?' Illya said, rather more fiercely than he had intended to. There was a sound from behind; Napoleon stood there, staring at him in amazement.

'Excuse me, but isn't it obvious?' Solo said, eyebrows raised slightly at his partner's attitude.

'Isn't what obvious?'

'Oh for goodness sake' Therese gasped, 'call yourself a scientist! I'm in labour, you divvy; you'll be a father in a couple of hours!'. Illya rubbed his hair with his hands in consternation.

'Are you sure?' he replied, gazing at her with the look of a fifteen year old on a first date, Napoleon thought. Therese shook her head slowly and kissed him.

'Yes, I'm sure' she said quietly, but I'm not sure you should be in the photos, _amado_. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?'. They both looked at him, standing there, the dungarees trailing on the floor a little, and his red checked shirt hanging out of the back of them. His face remained puffy, one eye still a vivid puce colour and closed, the suturing like little train tracks running at the side of his eye, and along the top of his forehead, with the clipped hair like a little grass verge by the side of the track. His expression was so pitiful that Therese burst out laughing, then groaned as now both Napoleon and Illya supported her along the path towards the lorry waiting at the end.

'Here we are, your favourite mode of transport, comrade' Napoleon murmured, as if by magic, the tailgate was dropped and Vaz and Fernando appeared.

'Your carriage awaits, milady' Vaz shouted, executing a mock bow rather precariously on the edge of the tailgate. He motioned to Fernando to give him a hand, as the two others on the ground attempted to push Therese up into the lorry.

'Cor, two-ton Tessy has got nothing on you, sis' Fernando gasped, as he attempted to heave Therese onto the lorry.

Therese put her tongue out at him as she was hoisted into the back, to the astonishment of the other women sitting along either side of the truck, like a surreal, pregnant choir, all looking her way.

Napoleon jumped aboard and yanked at Illya's arm, nearly pulling him on top of Therese, who was laid on blankets between the feet of the other women. The noise in the truck was deafening. All the girls seemed to be talking at the men at once in a host of languages, none of which could be heard above the other. Vaz looked totally bewildered, his head spinning from side to side like a virtual punch bag, as their words were thrown at him and reverberated from side to side. The noise reached a crescendo before suddenly there was a deafening shout,

_'Silence s'il vous PLAIT!'_

Illya stood there among them, looking like a teenager at a particularly raucous party.

Without seeming to draw breath, he began to explain what would be happening in at least ten languages that Napoleon recognised before he gave up counting. Eventually, sighing audibly, he paused.

'Anyone I missed?' he asked, looking round at the girls, who now seemed to be hanging on his every word. A tiny Japanese girl raised her hand slowly. Illya bowed his head slightly, and then began again in Japanese.

He felt a hand grab his ankle and pull his dungarees.

'Can we go now, my waters have just burst'. The truck lurched into life. Illya sat down and cradled Therese's head and shoulders on his lap.

'This isn't quite what we planned, is it?' he said fondly, trying to pull the duct tape out of her hair without success. She looked up at him, and he could see the topaz glint of her exquisite eyes taking him in, then closing momentarily as the pain washed over her.

'Cut it off' she gasped. 'I don't want any memory of her; nothing of what she did to us must remain when the baby is born, do you understand?'. Out of the darkness, Marie-Laure appeared at his side. She knelt down and very carefully separated the tape from the hair with a few swift snips.

' _Voila!_ Only a tiny amount lost, _cherie'_ she murmured, smiling gently and replacing the scissors in the bag.

Therese could see Sabi at the far end of the truck, sitting next to Fernando. She was suddenly reminded that Sabi also shared, most probably, the condition of all the women there. But for now, only one baby commanded her attention, needed her, and she needed the battered, bedraggled man who held her now in his arms. She could see Napoleon behind him, wide smile firmly in place, trying to keep the girls happy, not held back by language barriers. She tried to look through the smile, to see what he must be feeling underneath the so well hidden charm. Loss? Bitterness? Jealousy? She looked back at Illya.

'Make sure he's alright' she whispered, nodding towards Napoleon. He turned, looking at his partner, then back to her, a faintly quizzical look embroidering his dirty face.

'Stop being so good' he whispered in her ear. 'Think about yourself for a while; about us'.

'I think about 'us' all the time, Illya. All the time' she replied.

As the truck ploughed on towards the Convent, the sounds of conflict could be heard in the distance. Napoleon flipped back the canvas flap at the back of the lorry and looked across the Mediterranean landscape towards the harbour, and, immediately behind them on the road dominating the area around it, the burning wreck of the farmhouse and its subsidiary buildings. Behind the house, the black Bolt helicopter stood, surprisingly undamaged, it appeared. He felt by his side and picked up the binoculars he'd taken from Fernando after they'd boarded the truck. The devastation became startlingly apparent through the lenses. The roof of the house was a mass of blackened timbers, perching precariously on the shell of the upper story, the windows scorched and sightless holes through which the remains of the interior rooms could be seen. He swept the binoculars across the first floor, and then down, past the front of the house.

Very little movement was apparent. Any guards who had been in the house had either left, or had been unfortunate enough to be trapped in the fire. He had persuaded Illya to use darts rather than bullets in the house, some deeply held instinct making him feel uncomfortable about shooting women, even those who looked like they did. He jerked the binoculars slightly as, swinging them along the side of the house towards the helicopter, he was suddenly aware of two figures moving towards it. It was hard to be absolutely sure; the mid-afternoon shadows on the house were making it difficult to see clearly. Napoleon's hands clenched the binoculars in an effort to see better, and to stop the uneasy feeling building inside him.

The taller figure was slightly stooped, as if she was having difficulty breathing. Every few steps, she hesitated, at times slightly stumbling, but seemingly determined to carry on. The other figure he was sure, was a Bolt guard, the ubiquitous black leather costume slightly glinting in the sun's rays. He could see now that the helicopter was the object of their painful journey. He wrenched the glasses from his eyes, and jerked round. His partner was sat up, propped between the legs of some of the girls, with his wife laid out over his lap, his arms supporting and comforting her, murmuring into her hair, as she groaned and panted, her face pale now with the onset of labour.

'Illya!'. He signalled to him, his face revealing the urgency of the message. Illya stared back in amazement, then, as he could read his partner's expression clearly, he shouted down the truck at Fernando, and then, Fernando taking his place, somehow managed to extricate himself from all the bodies and stagger slowly towards the American.

'I hope this is important' Illya said, rather fiercely, his lips pursed in their usual line reserved for moments of severe annoyance. Napoleon pulled him towards the open flap of the truck and thrust the binoculars into his hand.

'Just look towards the helicopter quickly, or we'll be too far away, and tell me what you see' he said.

Illya raised the binoculars to his one good eye and began to scan the area. Napoleon waited, beginning to think he might have imagined what he felt was the unimaginable. He was able to feel the Russian stiffen, he was so close to him, then put the binoculars down.

'She's still alive' he murmured, looking at Napoleon, his damaged face suffused with a different sort of pain.

'This may sound insensitive, but did you notice if she was carrying anything?' he said, wincing inwardly at how heartless he sounded. But he could see that despite all the personal trauma, Kuryakin was still functioning as an agent.

'No. I think she was having difficulty carrying herself, let alone anything else. Tell Vaz to get someone to intercept the helicopter, and inform Waverly of what we think has happened' he said coldly. 'And Napoleon', he hesitated, a look of weariness now drifting across him like a dark shadow, 'I don't want Tess to know'.

'Yeah. Of course'.

Napoleon lurched across the truck towards the distant figure of the Indian, rammed against the cab end, and talking incessantly to three young women, all with varying degrees of confusion showing on their faces. He noticed Solo heading in his direction and stopped, his face alert, receptive to the trouble he thought might be heading his way.

'Problem, old man?' Vaz murmured, glancing down at the scene on the floor. Fernando was still lying behind his sister, with her husband talking quietly to the French doctor by his side.

'You could say that' Napoleon replied. 'We think we've just caught sight of your not so friendly Amazonian psychopath heading for her helicopter'. Vaz whistled under his breath.

'You don't say' he murmured. 'Fernando told me that little sister had put paid to the old bag for good'.

'Well it appears that the 'old bag' somehow survived, although she doesn't seem to have her papers, or the tapes with her'. He scratched his head, thinking what Waverly would say when he knew. 'Listen Vaz, since you've got the only communicator that works round here, can you alert Palma about the chopper, then inform Mr Waverly. Tell him we have the women, Therese and Illya, but no tapes or papers, and now, it seems, no Ms Bolt. Hopefully, the fire destroyed her attaché case, but we'll only know when the clean-up boys arrive and start sifting through'.

'And we don't let wind of this get to . . .'

'No, definitely not, at least for now. Illya doesn't want her to know, so fill in Fernando when you can drag him away, OK?' They looked down the truck. Fernando was obviously becoming quite a hit with the girls, some of whom were edging closer to him, even stroking his hair as he lay against the bench, Therese lying against him.

At last, the truck screeched to a sudden halt, some girls screaming a little with the jolting. Illya was the first to jump down, narrowly missing the dark form of Sister Catherine. She had procured a rather ancient looking wheelchair for the occasion, and an attempt had been made to make it more comfortable by the addition of a couple of immaculate white cotton blankets. She blinked slightly at the Russian's appearance, then put her hand on his arm.

'We have everything ready, Mr Kuryakin; we hope it will be adequate' she said kindly. 'We have a guest house, you know, that should provide you with what you need. We will take the girls into the convent, so that you can have a little peace'. Illya nodded gratefully, as from nowhere, two rather hefty men appeared from the direction of the convent garden. By now some of the girls had been helped off the truck and were dutifully following another sister into the main house, while Fernando edged Therese towards the arms of the two labourers.

Illya watched, feeling rather helpless. His head was aching rather dully, the dressings now besmirched and starting to lose their grip on his face. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and he turned rather wearily, wandering who wanted him now.

'You look like you need me to give you another bath, soft lad'.

He screwed up his functioning eye and stared. Josefina Solo grinned at him, her whole appearance so markedly different from the rest of the bedraggled group heaving themselves off the truck, that it made him want to hug her with joy. She had on an immaculate pair of Capri pants in a sort of fine black and white check, with a white off the shoulder jumper which showed off her elegant neck and smart hairstyle.

'Jo?' he stammered instead, rubbing his already matted hair and thereby worsening his appearance even more. She shook her head then glanced round coolly towards the truck, waiting for the rest of its cargo to be discharged.

Napoleon was virtually the last person off. As he stood on the tailgate, he gazed across at the scene in front of him. Therese was being carefully placed in the wheelchair by two guys he'd vaguely recognised from his sojourn at the priest's house. The other girls had virtually disappeared into the convent, and he could see Vaz standing by the wall, hunched over his communicator. He could guess the sort of conversation he was having, and felt a little guilty about making the more junior agent take the flak from Waverly. He started to look for Illya, easily recognisable as the teenage lookalike talking to that glamorous woman . .

He leapt off the back of the truck and ran across the gravel towards her. He could feel a ludicrous grin set like jelly across his face, despite the fact that he couldn't quite understand what she was doing there. Illya stepped back slightly to give him room, and then she was in his arms, her bright red hair, her amethyst eyes, the very smell of her making his heart seem to grow huge within his chest.

'Careful, lover, just be careful' she said, as he kissed her, then held her back slightly to take her in.

'Why? Am I messing up your lipstick? He asked, slightly perturbed at covering her jumper with smutty dust, which surprisingly, she didn't create about.

'Not exactly. But it'll keep at least for a while until I sort out two ton Tessy here, and you take soft lad and give him a wash and brush up. And you can include yourself in that too. Guest house, first floor, room three'. Illya was scowling behind her back already, but Napoleon luxuriated in her. The mission could be turning into a nightmare, a psychopath could still be on the loose, but, for now, Josefina was in charge, and all was well with the world.

'I want to stay with Therese' Illya said from behind her, sounding to himself as juvenile as he looked in these ridiculous clothes.

'Illy, we will need to examine Therese and make her comfortable, then you can come and be there at the birth, _non_ , but not looking like that, eh? Marie-Laure stood by Therese, her medical bag in her hand. Illya shrugged, and then bent down to kiss his wife. He noticed a faint grin on her lips.

 _'Illy_? Therese murmured. 'Cute'.

'Just remind them not to throw those clothes in the corner when they take them off you' he replied, 'otherwise they might be rather more fireworks to celebrate the baby's birth than we'd planned'.

He felt someone get hold of the back of his overalls and start dragging him away.

'Come on, we've got a lot of cleaning up to do, and you don't want to be late for this party do you?' Napoleon said into his ear.

'I am never late for parties'.

'That's your trouble'.

CHAPTER 19

In the end, Illya enjoyed the blissful luxuriance of the bath. The rooms were basic, with narrow beds pushed well away from each other he guessed, under normal circumstances. But this time, the beds were together, and a bunch of flowers stood on the chest of drawers to signal spring, and new life. The bathroom was between the two rooms, equally sparse, but serving his purposes wonderfully with its deep bath full of hot, soapy water.

He returned to the bedroom cleaner, but with the wounds now exposed after he had washed his face and hair and attempted a shave. The clothes he had brought with him were laid out by an unseen hand, but he could guess which one. Nevertheless, he gratefully clambered into them, enjoying the sensation of underwear for the first time in days.

'Mm. A bit better, though your hair needs attention. Your French girlfriend is a good surgeon but geez, Illya, what is this?'. Napoleon had waited until he returned. He touched Illya's hairline where the hair was cut in a stubbly line along the scar.

'It will be fine in a couple of weeks. Besides, I promised Frankie I wouldn't touch it without her supervision, remember?'

'Well she's going to love that. Perhaps she could continue the line round your head'. He ran his finger along the side of Illya's head, ignoring the baleful glare coming from the open eye near it.

'Thank you for that interesting style suggestion; I'll bear it in mind when I return to New York. Now, I have to see a sister about my dressings, and then I might be allowed to see my wife and baby before she starts kindergarten' Illya replied frostily, finishing buttoning his shirt, and forcing his feet into his shoes at the same time. As he looked up, Jo stood in the doorway, her dirty jumper already exchanged for a clean, black one.

'Sister Annunciata is waiting to sort out your head, if that's possible, then I suppose you're just about decent enough to be seen in public' she said, narrowing her eyes as she saw his forehead. Napoleon put his arm round her waist and his finger to her lips.

'Don't say anything' he whispered.

xxxxxxx

The touch of the nun's cool fingers was so soothing, that Illya's eyes began to wilt under her care. An image of his past silently crept into his unconsciousness. His own voice, pleading to be let out, saying he was scared. Not his voice, but yet it was. A child's voice. Then other voices, also pleading, also scared, joining in. He recognised the memory of his own experience, but the other voices, the other children were confusing, and the place seemed larger, a different darkness from where they cried. He was aware then, of a voice in his head urging him to wake up in the soft tones of the Catalan language, then her gentle face looking alarmed when he leapt up so quickly, clutching the wall of the room for support as his head caught up with his body.

'Whatever is wrong Illy? Sit down, you have got up too quickly, _Je pense'._

 _'Non, Laurie, non'._ Illya leaned against the bed he'd been lying on and looked up at Marie-Laure standing in the doorway.

' _Je m'excuse_ , _Laurie, J'ai eu une rêve; non - un cauchemar, je pense'_.

' _Excusez-moi?_ A nightmare _?!!'_

Illya looked round at the nun, standing patiently behind him.

'Sister, are there any cellars or underground storage places on the Bolt Estate?' She looked down in thought, her hands subconsciously smoothing her habit.

'I do not know _La Masia_ well, or any of the other buildings, but Sister Catherine will be able to tell you' she said, not showing any surprise at his question.

'Illya, I am beginning to think that the girl who attacked you did some permanent brain damage' Marie-Laure said, taking his hand. Whatever you are planning will have to wait. In case you had forgotten, you are now needed down the corridor, _mon brave'._

'I haven't forgotten. I just thought you were all trying to keep me out'.

'Well, if you look as pale as you did just then, then you will have to sit outside' Marie-Laure replied. She made him sit back down on the bed again, and rolled up his sleeve. 'This is an antibiotic, just to make sure the wounds will not become infected' Marie-Laure added. 'Now, when you are ready . . .'

'Laurie, I think Miss Bolt injected me when we were in theatre, you know'. Marie Laure looked at him closely.

'Are you sure?' she said, her eyes narrowing.

'Positive. I just can't imagine what it might be, that's all'. Marie-Laure put a hand on his forehead, and gently lifted his hand to take his pulse.

'You are a little warm, and your heart is racing a little, but it's not unusual, considering' she said, smiling a little. 'We'll have to keep an eye on you, Illy; if you start to feel any worse, then please tell me, _d'accord_?'.

'OK. But I'm alright now. I'm ready' he said. She glanced at him sharply, her own memories getting in the way and being pushed back to await a more appropriate time.

The room was quite large, a former small sitting room for guests. Any resemblance to a sitting room was now purely passing, for a bed now stood against one of the whitewashed walls, and in the corner, waiting to be occupied, a lovely wooden crib, the interior filled with similar immaculate looking sheets and blankets, but scaled down to fit the tiny space. Illya had walked half way down the corridor before realising he had left the package he had brought with him from his room. Now he carefully undid the bag and took out the little pink rabbit, clutching it in his hand as he came over and sat down by his wife's side.

Therese was sat up, a thin sheet loosely over her breasts, but revealing the astonishing shape of her abdomen below. Illya glanced round the room. He was conspicuously the only male there in a sea of female activity. A sister was laying out the medical impedimentia Marie-Laure had brought, while the Frenchwoman listened to Therese's abdomen with a strange black instrument resembling an ear trumpet. She smiled encouragingly at Illya and then beckoned to him. Therese herself hardly appeared to notice his presence. Her hands gripped the sides of the bed, her flushed face fixed in a concentrated stare.

' _N'inquiete-pas, Illy'_ Marie-Laure whispered in his ear. 'Don't worry. She is so strong; she is using the pain so well. She reminds me of the women I delivered in South Africa – strong and silent'. He looked at her quizzically, wondering what other parts of her life he didn't know about. 'After they had . . ., I . . I volunteered to work in South Africa, for a French medical missionary organisation. That's why I know how to deliver with the minimum technology, _non_?'. Illya pursed his lips. She could see the confusion building on his face, and put her hand gently onto his. Their hands locked together for an instant, then breaking apart as they both turned towards Therese. Marie-Laure leaned back towards him and whispered fiercely,

'What you think you know about our child; it's not true. They are . . both alive. If anything happens to me, Illy, then find our child'. She turned away from Illya's astonished stare towards Therese.

' _Regarde_ , Illy, your baby, _elle viens_ ; she is coming!'

xxxxxx

'Here, smile for Uncle Napoleon and Auntie Jo'. Somehow, from where nobody afterwards knew, Napoleon had contrived to produce a camera. Therese watched him organising people, and taking what seemed like hundreds of pictures of various different groups, rushing away to re-load the film, then bursting in again to take yet more pictures. On the other hand, the baby's father remained totally transfixed by the small being who lay in his arms, eyes closed, the tiny lashes delicately fringing her face, one tiny hand poking out of the soft blanket in which she was wrapped. Therese had taken her then, affixing her to her breast, the little mouth amazingly knowing what was required, to Illya's astonishment.

'She's a red-head!' Napoleon smirked. 'Not one of the master race then, comrade'. He received the customary, but somewhat tempered stare back from the proud father. Illya stroked the quite plentiful auburn hair on his daughter's head.

'Actually, my father was red-headed' he said, smiling faintly, 'It's the Viking heritage of Russians, Napoleon'.

Illya stroked the wild curls of his wife's hair and kissed her forehead.

'Happy with your Anastasiya?' she said, moving slightly as he sat behind her on the bed with his arms round her shoulders. He breathed out slowly, gently hooking the baby's fingers around his own.

'Beyond belief' he murmured.

After a while, the others evaporated out of the room, and only Napoleon and Jo were left, Jo holding the baby, and Therese eating two large pieces of toast which seemed to have appeared at some point.

'We're going to have fun together' Jo whispered to the baby; 'you can help me keep your father in order, for a start'. Illya sighed audibly.

'Please don't give her ideas 'he replied; there are too many women in my life already nagging me about unimportant matters'.

'Unimportant to you, soft lad, but we'll see, when she brings home the new boyfriend and her middle-aged dad still looks like Jim Morrison'. Therese started to giggle.

'Oh give him a break, sis' she said, 'I'm sure you can induct Tasiya into the Josefina Solo School of high style as soon as she's old enough to give her father a lecture if his hair's too long'.

Napoleon came over and took Anastasiya from Jo's arms. Illya and Therese looked at each other, their expressions not lost on his partner.

'Before you two start fretting about the state of my emotional health, perhaps we'd better let you in on the news' Napoleon said, finding it difficult to stop a broad grin breaking out on his face. It was worth it to watch the expression of bewilderment on his partner's face as the Russian tried to make his brain compute the probable answer to his partner's statement. Therese, on the other hand, seemed to have divined the answer.

'How far on are you?' she said to Jo, as Illya gazed from one to the other in bafflement. She put her toast down, and took Illya's hand. 'Uncle Napoleon plus Aunty Josefina equals . . .'

'A baby? A baby!' he cried, jumping up in a rare un-Illya moment of excitement, all of them looking at each other with barely concealed laughter as he ran round the room hugging the others. 'What?' Illya said. 'I'm allowed to be happy, am I not?'.

'Of course, darling, of course' Therese laughed, kissing the small part of his face that wasn't swollen, bruised, or covered with bandages.

'I do have one other important function to perform' Napoleon said, when Illya had resumed his place, and Jo had taken charge of the baby. He delved in the pocket of his trousers, bringing out a small box.

'I now pronounce you still to be man and wife' he said, pushing the rings onto the two fingers outstretched for the purpose. 'This, you'll have to do, comrade' he added, picking up the delicate necklace. For a few moments it lay coiled in Illya's hand, then he rose slowly to his feet and fastened it round Therese's neck.

'So, where's the hair then?' she asked wickedly, noting the consternation on his face. 'I thought I could coil it round my head until this grew' she added, looking at his downcast face. She lifted his chin gently. 'Don't tell me you kept it, _amado_ ' she whispered, shaking her head. He blushed slightly under her gaze.

'We'll leave you two alone for a while; I mean, you three' Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows at his wife. 'I'll be outside when you're ready'.

When they had gone, Illya put the baby into the crib and lay down next to Therese on the bed. She fondled his hair, running her finger along the stubby hairline.

'Now, tell me exactly what you got up to when I was away' she murmured. 'And don't leave out the nasty bits either'.

Xxxxxxxxx

Napoleon lit a cigarette on the wall of the guest house and leaned back, his eyes half-closed, blocking out the brightness of the sun, already making its way towards early evening in the distance. In the courtyard in front of the Abbey, the two labourers were building a large bonfire, loading sticks and larger pieces of wood to make a satisfying conical shape.

'It's for the Easter fire, you remember'.

Illya had come up on him without him being aware of it. All the excitement of becoming a father had not diminished his native cunning, obviously, Napoleon thought. He looked at the Russian in the shadow of the house. He looked very tired, his face rather grey looking under the bandages.

'Have you told her, then?' he ventured, taking a long draw from the glowing cigarette. Illya looked at him somewhat critically, then smiled.

'Yes. It felt as if she was the last person I had to apologise to' he replied, smiling. Napoleon dropped the cigarette at the disapproving look on his partner's face.

'Napoleon, if I asked you to come back to the farmhouse with me now, purely because I had a dream about something and it.. it seemed to be telling me something; I mean, . .'

'Marie-Laure told me' Napoleon said, putting his hand on the Russian's shoulder. 'Well, it wouldn't be the first time we followed one of your hare-brained hunches'.

'You mean you'll come?'

'Excuse me, but you won't get anywhere without someone to show you where they are, now will you?'.

To Napoleon's amusement, Illya jumped at the voice behind him. Sister Catherine stood there, but not in her usual attire. She was wearing a pair of trousers and a plain shirt, her head covered in a dark coloured head scarf, little wisps of bright red hair poking out round her forehead. Napoleon dug his partner in the ribs.

'Another redhead, I see' he murmured, 'must be your speciality'. Illya pulled a face, then turned to the American nun.

'Excuse me, sister, but you don't need to come with us. If you just tell us . . .'

'Oh but I think I do, Mr Kuryakin. I'd say that judging by your appearance, you would rank as unfit for duty on medical grounds, and apart from Mr Solo here, your other colleagues are engaged elsewhere. If you are right, then you're going to need some back-up. Right, Mr Solo?

'Yes indeedy' Napoleon answered, not flinching as he felt his foot stamped on hard. 'Illya usually needs both eyes to see where to go at the best of times'.

'I am perfectly capable of seeing where I am going' Illya hissed, suddenly aware of a slowly increasing pain in his head. 'I can do this'. Napoleon noticed that Illya already had his holster on, his gun sitting comfortably against the white of his shirt.

'I'll get Pedro to bring round the truck' Sister Catherine replied.

Every bump and bang on the road reverberated into Illya's head as they drove at full speed towards the blackening mass that had been the farmhouse. It was apparent that back-up forces had arrived at the harbour, from the myriad lights illuminating the port. Vaz and Fernando had been dispatched to oversee the supervision of those guards who had been rounded up, but for now, _La Masia_ and its adjoining buildings were left, silent and dark in the diminishing light of the day.

Illya was beginning to think that he had indeed suffered brain damage, or at least, was going soft in the head to go rushing back here just because he had dreamed about some children crying somewhere. He hadn't told Therese where he was going, in fact she had been asleep when he had looked in before they went, the baby also cocooned in her tiny crib next to the bed. He had to force himself to come out of the room away from them, and jump into the truck. He began to feel a little light-headed, and shook his head to try and regain his concentration. Sister Catherine was looking at him intently, a slight line of worry crossing her face as she drove.

Illya groaned slightly as the truck slid to a sudden halt, banging him against the side of the cab. He decided that a few days in bed, preferably with his family round him, was beginning to sound like a nice idea. Napoleon was staring at him now, and he managed to stare back without letting him know how much his head was hurting and how hot he felt.

Sister Catherine parked the truck in front of the house, now fast disappearing into the shadows of the evening. She pulled out a large torch from the cab door, and signalled to the two men with her head. In the torch's light, she held a small piece of paper.

'I've drawn a rough plan of where I think the cellars are. Of course, we'll have to be extremely careful where we tread, and there may be too much debris lying around anyway, if some of the ceilings have come down'. Illya nodded, trying not to open his mouth too much. They set off round the side of the building, and walked gingerly through a blackened door leading to a corridor. The sun's setting rays gave a rosy glow to the charred remnants of the house, but the atmosphere felt more chilling. From time to time, unstable timbers creaked in the wind, occasionally falling to earth from higher up in the house; but of human occupants, there seemed no trace.

'The first cellar is located here' Sister Catherine whispered, constrained by the feel of the place into speaking quietly. Napoleon found a piece of wood and managed to clear piles of rubbish covering the floor. With a black metal rod from one of the windows, Illya forced up the edge of the first trap door, shouting down and sweeping the black hole with the torch. Apart from a few sounds of scuffling, nothing moved or cried out. They repeated the process with two other cellars, each time Napoleon observing the increasingly desperate look on his partner's rather flushed face.

'It's no good, I'm just wasting your time' Illya said despairingly, kicking a piece of wood and stamping the floor in frustration. Napoleon was examining the map with the torch in the gloom.

'I am sorry, but I'll have to return soon for the vigil ' Sister Catherine said, putting her hand on Illya's shoulder. 'Perhaps they took the children out, or there were fewer of them than your intelligence indicated, or . . .'

'They killed them all' Illya concluded. 'Perhaps. I'm sorry, I just had to try. Having a baby has obviously made me a little over-emotional, it seems' he said sadly. Sister Catherine smiled.

'No, not at all. Having a baby will make you a stronger person – and a better agent even. You will have someone to fight your battles for now, Illya'. He smiled, and heaved himself up, then dropped down again onto the floor. Napoleon stuffed the paper in his pocket and shone the torch at him.

'Illya, you OK? What is it?'

'Shh'. Illya lay outstretched on the dirty floor, the relatively undamaged side of his head pressed to the ground. After a few moments he jumped up and started scrabbling at the floor. 'There must be a door here' he shouted at the others, 'let me look at the map'. They all scrambled round clearing the floor, but it was patently obvious after a few minutes frantic work that there was no observable opening in this part of the corridor. Illya rubbed his hand through his hair manically, walking round the corridor and then retracing his steps back to the previous trap door.

'Illya, give it up. It'll be dark soon, so leave it for the boys tomorrow'. Napoleon started to walk towards the back of his partner, who was standing peering into the darkness of the cellar beneath the door at the far end of the corridor. He gazed at Napoleon, and then disappeared.

'Illya!' Sister Catherine ran up to the edge of the hole, while Napoleon shined the torch downwards. The beam picked up Illya's rather sweaty looking face gazing back up at them.

'What the hell are you playing at, you could have broken your damn neck, you Cossack!' Napoleon shouted down.

'Well, I didn't. Now throw down that metal rod, Napoleon, if you don't mind. Just give me two minutes and then I promise you I will give up'.

'Don't want to spoil your fun, buddy mine, but just how are you going to get back up again, unless all that church going has produced wings in your Russian back, by any chance?'. Illya's scowl made Sister Catherine smile.

'He's awkward isn't he?' she whispered to Napoleon.

'No. Mule stubborn. Mule stubborn' he replied, shaking his head.

They could hear banging and scraping, before the top of a ladder appeared in the hole.

'Satisfied?' a voice called up. 'No wings required'. They could hear further banging, then he was back again. 'Napoleon, can you help me? I think there's a door, but someone's tried to hide it. It appears that they didn't intend to open it again'. Napoleon instantly clambered down the steps towards the upturned face of his partner on the cellar floor. Illya had a small torch of his own which he was shining on what looked like a rough cast wall. The beam of the larger torch revealed evidence of recently applied concrete. In the light of the torch Napoleon noticed the expression on his partner's face.

'You've brought something along, haven't you?' he said, eliciting a faint smile from the Russian. Illya crouched down instantly and yanked off his shoe, carefully peeling back the heel.

'I managed to extricate a few items from Therese's clothes before I put them in the rubbish bin' he said with totally unconcealed satisfaction in his voice. He unwound what looked like a long piece of string which obligingly stuck itself to the edge of the newly applied concrete. Breaking off the end, he stuck the rest of it on the other side.

' Now I would suggest you go over to that wall, Napoleon and stick your fingers firmly in your ears'. Napoleon had barely reached the wall when his partner arrived by his side, fingers firmly in his ears.

The noise was deafening in the confined space, dust swirling into the air and covering them once again with a combination of concrete and the dirt of ages from the cellar. There was then a few moments eerie quiet as they peered across the cloud filled room.

The concrete at the sides of the opening had shattered into piles of debris, now piled up higgledy-piggledy either side of a yawning gap where the door had been. The original door had been blown inwards, taking its concrete covering with it. It now lay like a giant slab on the brick floor of the cellar, beckoning them forward to the gloomy realms beyond.

'It's lucky for you that no-one was standing behind' Napoleon murmured, suddenly aware of someone behind him.

'Impressive, Mr Kuryakin', Sister Catherine commented, glancing at the ghostly form of the Russian, now covered in concrete dust from head to toe. 'Nothing like a boy with his toys is there?' she whispered to Napoleon, as Illya inspected the doorway and then charged on into the gloom.

'He's probably already ordered the chemistry set for Anastasiya's Christmas present' Napoleon replied, training the torch onto the rapidly disappearing form in front of him.

Illya swivelled round as they were nearly on top of him, and put his fingers to his lips. Napoleon calculated that they must have returned almost to the point where the Russian heard the faint sounds in the corridor. In front of them was another very large, solid door, made of wood this time, and bearing an enormous, elaborate looking padlock. As they fell into silence they could all hear the weak, but unmistakeable child's voice.

' _Socorro, por favor! Socorro!'_

The voice, begging them for help, became more urgent, higher in pitch. Illya knelt down and put his face to the crack in the door. In Spanish, then in Catalan, he whispered back words of comfort, telling the unknown child to stand back from the door. When he stood up, his face was set, his undamaged eye cast down, hands rapidly working to pick the lock of the padlock with a tiny set of tools he had wrenched out of his back pocket.

'I don't want to use explosive' Illya explained tersely, his whole frame bent on the task of unlocking the door. Napoleon watched helplessly, not daring to even touch his partner. Sister Catherine leant against the wall in front of the Russian, her eyes almost closed, her lips moving silently almost to the rhythm of the clicks Illya was making in the lock. His head came up abruptly then, as the padlock spun open and dropped to the floor with a mighty clang.

' _Bravo_ , Illya!' The nun hugged him spontaneously, Napoleon noticing his head slightly drooping onto her shoulder as she held him momentarily before he stepped back and began to pull the bolts back from the top and bottom of the door. Napoleon stepped forward and pushed him gently aside.

'Give the brain a second's rest while the brawn takes over' he said, motioning to Sister Catherine. Illya frowned, but stood back as the other two yanked at the handle. There was a slight creak, then the door swung strangely, silently open.

A boy, no more than seven years old if that, stepped out of the darkness, eyes screwed up at the torchlight illuminating his face. Illya would always remember the expression of absolute resignation and fear that was displayed on his face, and the cowering body language that spoke forcibly to them all of what had happened in this place. There was silence for a few moments, then the boy spoke, looking straight at Illya.

'Are you a ghost, _senor_?'

Illya bent down immediately to the boy's height.

' _Nyet'_ hereplied, inexplicably in Russian, before switching to the Spanish the boy was talking. 'I'm real, touch me'. He held out his hand and waited for the boy to come nearer. He took a few steps forward, very slowly. Illya could see that he was shaking, his eyes riveted to the man kneeling down. At last he was almost touching. Illya could smell him; a dirty, rank smell of someone unwashed for some time. He stayed completely still, waiting for the boy to come forward at his own speed. Napoleon and Sister Catherine stayed well back, frozen into the darkness of the cellar behind Illya.

Suddenly, with a little run forward, the boy almost leapt into Illya's arms, folding his head down, cocoon like, into the body of the Russian. Napoleon could hear his partner breathing heavily, his head now down over the boy's in a protective gesture startlingly unlike any he had seen him adopt towards any child he had come across in the past. He began to stroke the boy's back gently as the sound of sobbing resonated from the two figures. Napoleon wondered for a minute just who was actually crying.

Eventually, when the sobbing subsided, the boy sat up, still clinging, animal-like, to Illya.

'Please don't take any more' the boy whispered. Napoleon bent down on the ground beside them.

'I'm Illya, and these are my friends, Napoleon and Catherine' Illya said quietly. 'And what is your name?'.

'Pablo, Senor Illya. My name is Pablo after the famous cellist'. It was said so proudly, that they all found it difficult to speak for a few seconds.

'You mean Casals, Pablo Casals?' Illya replied. 'Yes, he's a wonderful man. You are well named, Pablo'. He began to stroke Pablo's rather long, incredibly matted hair back from his face. 'Pablo' he continued, 'Are there any other children here?'. Pablo suddenly beamed, his teeth showing up strangely in the gloom.

Si, Senor Illya. Yes, there are five boys, five girls and two babies'

'Babies!' Sister Catherine exclaimed, crouching down by Illya. Pablo held out his hand and held it a little way from the ground.

Yes, but they are walking; they are this high' he said, as if he was describing a vegetable he had been growing.

'Can you show us where they are?' Illya murmured gently to him, smiling encouragingly.

'Si, Illya; but, Illya' he asked, fingering the bandages on his new friend's head, 'did you have a fight in the school playground? '. Napoleon smirked at the question.

'Shall I tell you something about this big boy, Pablo?' he said, pointing at the Russian. 'He fights with girls, that's how he got those'. Pablo's eyes became round as saucers, as Illya sighed deeply and shook his head.

Pablo pulled Illya to his feet, and hands firmly cemented together, set off with him, the other two following behind across the rough cobbles of the room. Illya began to worry a little at what they might find in the next room, but the others had obviously stayed there, while Pablo was sent to the main door. He pulled open a much lighter door to reveal the other occupants of the cellar.

The other children were huddled together on what looked like a mass of sacking and rags in the corner of the filthy room. The stench which hit them was almost overwhelming. Pablo urged Illya into the room, to the alarm of the other children, who, after a few moments petrified silence, began to babble, not all in Spanish, Illya noticed. Pablo shouted out something above the noise, and they were instantly quiet, except the 'babies', two rather dirty, but beautiful little girls, who began to toddle uncertainly, like very large clockwork toys, heading straight for Napoleon. He scooped them up as they arrived, to their delight, and hoisted them onto his shoulders. Instantly, the children began to clap and run round the three rather bemused adults.

'They're not all Mallorcan' Illya said to Napoleon, a little girl now firmly attached to his trousers, being prised off by his minder, Pablo.

'No, Illya' Pablo shouted strangely now speaking English;, 'some of them are Germs'. Illya grinned and nodded at Pablo.

'I think he means Germans', Illya said. He knelt down again, the little girl, who had shouted in his ear in Spanish 'I am Dolores', holding on for dear life.

'Pablo, who taught you English?'. Pablo stuck out his chest and tried to look taller than he was.

'The big lady. The one who did the nasty things to the others, giving them injections'. Suddenly, Illya felt a little colder than he had a few moments before.

'What big lady, Pablo?' he continued, trying not to frighten the boy. 'The one with the funny nose and spectacles?'. Pablo shook his head.

'She did do things, but it wasn't her. It was the other one _. L'Americana._ She came here and said she was going to get her little girl now'.

Napoleon put his hand firmly on his partner's shoulder.

'We need to get out of here quickly if what I think he just said is even remotely true' he said, feeling the rigidity of the Russian under his hand. Illya looked up at him. Napoleon had never seen before even a hint of the anguish now etched across the damaged face, Illya's mouth working into a tightly drawn line, as he stared back at his partner.

'Start to get the children out of here' he said in a frigid, shaking voice. He lifted up the little girl Dolores, and began to move towards the ladder, Pablo still firmly attached to his other hand. Napoleon, the two toddlers still riding on his shoulders, signalled to Sister Catherine, who brought up the rear with the rest of the children.

It was fairly slow going getting the children up the ladder, and Illya had to work hard to stop himself from shouting at them. His head was beginning to throb unmercifully, and his eyes felt as if somebody was stabbing him every time he moved them. He took several deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm himself and focus on the welfare of the children, while inside his head was screaming at him to consider his own child, left at the mercy of someone he had thought was too badly injured to be any threat. The truck was thankfully in the same place they had left it, and the children by now were beginning to revel in their new-found freedom, surging forward and swarming up into the arms of Napoleon and Sister Catherine as Illya lifted them up.

It was only when he was at last in the truck himself, that he began to truly appreciate how ill he felt. His arms and legs had now joined his eyes and head in aching painfully and continually. His face felt flushed, despite the cooling wind of the evening, and he had a vague, nauseous feeling building in his stomach as the lorry crashed along the uneven road towards the Abbey. Napoleon had elected to drive, leaving Sister Catherine to supervise the children in the back. Napoleon glanced across at his partner, his eyes narrowing.

'When we get there, let me deal with this. I hate to say this, but you look like shit'. Illya leaned back against the seat, his eyes closed.

'Napoleon, I'm grateful for your help, but this mess is my responsibility. I have left Marie-Laure to face the possible danger of Miss Bolt's retribution, and worse, I have left my wife and daughter alone and unprotected'. He turned towards Napoleon, his breath now coming shallow and laboured, as he fought to keep conscious. 'I have a horrible feeling' he added, 'that Miss Bolt has also given me a little present to remember her with'.

As they drove up the hill towards the Convent, the bells could be heard ringing out across the headland, a great cacophony of sound announcing the most sacred night of the Church's year. They could see the flaming pile of wood now, illuminating the walls of the church with a warm, flickering glow. People were beginning to assemble, and Napoleon could see the Priest and altar servers milling round, their white garments billowing up in the gusty wind like sheets on an imaginary washing line. As they drew closer, the glare of the fire lit up the windscreen. Napoleon looked across at his partner, hunched over against the side of the lorry. His hands and face were covered with an angry looking raised rash, contrasting with the paleness of the bandages and the remains of the concrete dust that covered his hair and clothes. Napoleon leapt out of the cab at top speed and ran round the front of the lorry to prevent his partner falling out onto the hard gravel. As the passenger door began to open, he could hear the children pouring out of the back into the arms of the two gardeners. Then suddenly, all the other noises, of adults, children and even the fire, were drowned by a far greater sound, bearing down upon them from above.

The deafening roar of rotor blades whipped up the fire below into a frenzied blaze, but from the spectators below, only a stunned silence was evident, even from the children. Every face seemed turned upwards, frozen in position by the sheer noise and unexpectedness of the machine above them. Illya had somehow half fallen, half climbed from the cab into Napoleon's arms. His legs and arms were so painful, he felt as if he were on fire, but he forced himself upright in time to see the events above his head unfolding. It felt as if time was slowing down, and he was there, an unwilling spectator, unable to prevent the occupants of the helicopter from carrying out whatever they had come to do.

A figure emerged, throwing out a thick metal cable from the open door of the helicopter into the night sky. Very slowly the cable began to unwind, gently lowering itself down. The attention of those on the ground was so drawn by the cable, that most people were not aware immediately of two other people moving towards it. A sudden, sharp beam from the bottom of the helicopter illuminated the scene below, like a bizarre circus attraction. The two agents froze as the _dramatis personae_ became familiar. The red hair of the woman holding a small bundle in her arms was immediately recognisable as the guard Willow, and the diminutive figure running after her, as Marie-Laure Rondeau.

Napoleon felt his colleague suddenly stiffen and then, by some unimaginable reserve of energy, run forward towards the two figures. The helicopter was hovering now above the garden, the cable swinging slowly above the Sisters' graveyard, a small walled part of the garden secluded from the rest by a low stone wall topped by pantiles. Illya forced himself to run through the garden towards the little wooden gate leading to the cemetery. He could see Willow standing in the middle, waiting for the cable to descend. And in her arms, he could see the tiny form of his little girl. From above he saw Li-Hua Bolt mouthing something at him, her serpentine face full of hatred, her mouth a red gash through which the unheard words fell. She was waving a large pistol in his direction, firing indiscriminately. A bullet thudded into the gate behind him, another glancing off the stone wall, then shattering the tile above. He could hear Napoleon shouting something from behind the wall, and the sound of gunfire heading in the opposite direction.

'Don't shoot!' he began to scream, lurching towards Willow, his feet feeling as if someone had filled them with concrete. She drew out a small revolver and, hideously, put it to the baby's head.

'No nearer, _'_ she bawled, her face an unrecognisable mask of bitterness. Illya stopped, shaking with the effort of keeping still. 'How do you like that little touch of fever that we've given you?' she shouted mockingly. 'Now, lie down and be very ill for a while, Ocean, and then when you recover, if you recover, we'll be long gone, and THRUSH will have your daughter to use against you as they have used your other child to gain her compliance ' she bawled, pointing at Marie-Laure with the gun.

Illya put out his hand slowly towards the baby, his body screaming at him, begging him to lay down, to sleep. Instantly, Marie-Laure seized the opportunity of Willow's distraction to grab the baby. As she ran up, Willow turned, and shot her, the bullet causing a thick spume of blood to spurt from her neck.

Willow threw the gun down and started to move towards the helicopter as the cable, hovered fractionally above the ground. A shot rang out from behind Illya, narrowly missing the guard as she grabbed for the cable with her free hand. Illya glanced round, his eyes on fire with pain as he sought out his friend.

'Napoleon, don't shoot!'. There was a movement behind the wall, but from another direction. Willow ran towards the swinging rope harness. As she grabbed it, another shot exploded in the night air. She seemed to freeze, then very slowly sink to her feet. Illya lunged forward, rolling over onto his back as the baby, now bawling, was released from the guard's arms onto his chest. He willed his arms to close onto the tiny form, and then sank back into the grass, the baby's face pressed into his neck. He could feel her warm breath, while her loud cries slowly turned to whimpers as they lay there together in the glare of the helicopter's light.

Illya forced his good eye open in time to look straight up. The cable began to be retracted rapidly, swinging across the sky as it disappeared into the machine above. Then, as the helicopter swung upwards and away into the night, he felt the baby being gently prised away from his arms, as darkness finally closed in.

Xxxxxx

Napoleon holstered his gun and looked round. He could see Illya, the Frenchwoman and the guard spreadeagled on the grass, the neatly tended graves, each a simple cross in the earth, silently witnessing the events of the evening. He knew that he had missed the guard, but after that he had hesitated when Illya had shouted, and he saw Willow holding the baby, caught like rabbits in the glare of the searchlight. Then, from further along the wall, another gun had fired. A surreal, slow-motion scene unfolded; a great spurt of blood covered the two figures, both sliding gracefully to the ground, the diminutive form of the baby slipping gently from one to the other. Then the spell was broken, as another figure ran forward.

Napoleon gasped. His wife knelt over Illya's body, and as he approached, she was gently relieving Illya of his daughter, cooing gently to the baby as she held her tightly to her breast. To Napoleon's great relief, Illya was still breathing, although he looked a frightening combination of dust, blood, bandage and inflamed skin. Marie-Laure lay at the side of him, her neck haemorrhaging blood at an alarming rate.

Napoleon grabbed the little blanket which had fallen to the ground and pushed it into the wound, lifting the dying woman onto his lap. Her eyes were almost closed, and he lent over her faintly moving lips as she struggled to speak.

'Tell him to find our child' she gasped, heaving to give her message before it was too late; 'and tell him ' _Je t'adorais toujours, toujours'_. Before he could reply, she had fallen back, her eyes finally closed.

'Help him, quickly' Jo said calmly, 'I'm taking Tasiya back to her mummy'. Napoleon laid Marie-Laure down gently, for once rendered speechless by the contrast between his wife's ruthless efficiency with the gun, and the gentleness of her manner with the baby. He screwed up his face as she came closer and held him close, the baby held warmly between them as they stood together. She began to shake a little.

'Go on, Napoleon, he needs you; I'll send the cavalry as soon as I get to the others'.

He watched her pick her way carefully back towards the guest house, whose lights were flooding the area round with bright, square reflections from the little windows dotted along the high, stone walls.

'Open Channel PX. Sabi?'. The familiar tones of the German agent burst through the communicator, plying him with questions. They talked for a few moments, then Napoleon knelt down by the side of his partner, putting his arm under the Russian's head, and holding the communicator to his ear.

'Illyusha, this is Sabi, darling. Listen, the baby is fine, and Tess is fine too. That guard gave her something, but she is awake now; they are both fine, darling'. Napoleon closed the pen and started to wipe away the blood from Illya's face, rolling him over slightly as he was violently sick on the ground. After what felt like an age, he saw two white figures with a stretcher advancing upon them, revealing themselves as UNCLE medical staff as they got nearer.

'You're alright now, comrade' Napoleon whispered in Illya's ear, 'the Medics are coming for you'. He was sure he heard Kuryakin groan audibly.

CHAPTER 20

Anastasya Illyevna Carmel Kuryakin opened her eyes wide, her tiny lips pursed in a perfect little o shape. Her mother fastened the buttons of her lacy cardigan, her little arms flapping slightly as she fixed Therese with a long, sweet stare, her deep, purple-blue eyes holding her in their gaze. She scooped her up from the bed and smiled at the tiny feet poking out from the delicate little dress.

'Now, let's go and see Daddy' she whispered, kissing the soft red hair framing the little girl's face.

Illya Kuryakin lay on the narrow bed staring through the open window at the exquisite Mediterranean sky. His nose twitched, and he longed to wrench out the tube which was temporarily stuck to the side of his face, together with the IV drip inserted in his right arm. His hazy memory of the last three weeks included many needles drawing fluids out, pumping others in. He had no idea what he looked like, except that the sutures had been removed, and his face felt more comfortable, both eyes working now.

He had begun to doze a little, when he was aware they were there, from the trace of perfume in the air, to the sweet baby sounds near his head. He opened his eyes, a smile illuminating his face, as he gazed into the tiny face now so near to his own. He could see Therese behind the baby, a wildly different Therese to the girl he remembered from a few weeks ago. She was wearing a bright blue tight fitting t-shirt, which revealed her impressively enlarged breasts, a flippy mini skirt, and a matching broad bright blue hair band which held the wild wavy hair back from her face. Suddenly, he felt like sitting up.

Before he could summon what little energy he seemed to have, she had laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Don't try, you won't be able to yet, not for a while'. He gazed at her helplessly, feeling as dependent and malleable as the little baby laid by his side.

'She looks lovely' he whispered, his throat constricted and dry. The effort of saying so few words seemed to send him into a spin, and he lay back, his eyes closed. Therese shook her head, and put the baby into the Moses basket perched at the end of the bed. She fetched a little plastic cup of water, and began to wipe the slightly cracked lips with the liquid.

'Listen' she murmured to him, stroking his hair back, the little patch at the front now grown into a tufty line along his forehead, 'You have been very, very ill, darling, and you are going to have to be very, very good if you are to get better, understand?'. He nodded, fixing her with a gaze reminiscent of the one their daughter had just used a few minutes before.

'Am I still here, I mean, how long?' Illya said, confused by his own questions.

Therese gave him a few tiny sips of the water, and then put it down at the side of the bed.

'My American friend gave you a mighty cocktail' she said, watching his eyes close, knowing he was still listening. 'She obviously intended you to be on your back for a long while, if not permanently. You know,' she added, Napoleon thinks that she was trying to rob that Nazi doctor of her prize specimen! Anyway, we thought that you might prefer not to be in some God-awful medical facility for the next two months, so they shipped everything here instead. It's not as if you need an operation, apart from the teeth that is, and they'll just have to wait; just a very long recuperation, _amado_ '.

'How long?' Illya whispered, forcing his eyes open.

'Well, you can discuss that with your doctors, but they've devised a plan for you over the next six or seven weeks that should see you fit enough to resume killing people and blowing up buildings by the summer'. Illya groaned.

'But I can't . . .'.

'But you can, and you will, if you don't want to damage your heart permanently' Therese said, quite forcefully, evoking a wide-eyed response from her husband. 'When you've had a rest, I'll come back and talk about the other little matter'.

'What other little matter?'

'Pablo'.

'Tell me now'. Therese drew up a chair, then took the baby out of the Moses basket, and lifted up her t-shirt. Illya gazed at the baby joyously sucking away at the breast, her little fingers gently unfurling and then closing in her pleasure.

'Are you still awake?'

'Yes. Just thinking how lucky she is'.

'Well, you'll be pleased to know your tube is coming out if you're good, and you can eat proper food soon'.

'That's not what I meant'. Therese cuffed him slightly on the head and then shifted slightly to support the baby. 'Pablo' she said quietly, 'is still here'. Illya put his free hand behind his head, twisting his hair in his fingers.

'What happened to the others?' he said.

'Well, while you were doing your best to fight the _lurgy_ , your sister-in-law has been sorting out the legal nightmare left behind by Miss Bolt, namely the pregnant women and the children'. Illya sighed at the memory of the frightened faces in the cellar.

'The children were relatively more simple to deal with; they had been brought from Mallorca and also from the families of the employees of Bolt in Germany, although God knows how they were persuaded to give them up' Therese continued.

'Oh she has ways, as you know' Illya murmured.

'You mean, she _had_ ways' Therese said, looking at him oddly. Illya blinked momentarily.

'Um, yes. So what has Josefina managed to do?' Illya said, looking away.

She made contact with every family and arranged transport for the children' Therese answered. 'The women have also been repatriated for the time being, but she's got to sort out the whole question of the paternity of the babies. Luckily,' she added, her face lighting up, 'they found the attaché case after I blew up the whole room; you know, when Li-Hua was killed, so they can use the tapes to match the women with the donors'. She glanced round at Illya, shocked by his pallor. His face was turned from her, his free hand gripping the sheet and cotton blanket covering his spare form.

Therese switched the baby onto her other breast, keeping her eyes on the still figure in the bed.

'She's not dead, is she?'. The baby's rhythmic sucking noises filled the vacuum in the room as they sat in silence. After a while, Illya turned onto his back and opened his eyes.

'I seem to have lost my ability to hide my thoughts, at least from you' he said. 'Yes. She is alive, although I don't know in what state. I saw her leave the building after the explosion, and then I . .I think I glimpsed her in the helicopter when . .'

'When your doctor friend was trying to save our baby; yes I know'. She lapsed into silence for a while, until Anastasiya, a look of glorious contentment on her face, was placed back in the basket. Therese put the basket on the floor and got into the bed next to Illya, pulling him slightly to rest his head on her shoulder. He felt easier to move, lighter, frail.

'Illya, I told you before; don't try and protect me from things I should know about' she said, stroking his hair, now wildly grown out and untidy. Outwardly, she sat there calmly, with him in her arms, her face now buried into his hair. Inwardly, her stomach churned. Therese had thought about her responsibility for Bolt's death every day since the explosion in the house. Now, she could expunge her guilt at the expense of knowing that Li-Hua was still out there, and that she still wanted her child. Illya stirred in her arms.

'Tess, I have something else to tell you, something which, if it is true, I will need Napoleon to help me with, if I . . I'. He stopped in mid-sentence, as if it were beyond him to contemplate the idea that he wanted to share with her. 'Then, you must tell me about Pablo'. Therese continued to stroke his head, the baby gurgling in the background.

'Just after she was shot, Laurie said something to Napoleon' Illya began. 'She told him to tell me to find our child'. He noticed that his wife didn't flinch at his words, just continuing to run her fingers softly through his hair. He decided to leave out the other bit, about loving him always, for later.

She got up, and laid him down flat, tidying the bed round him. Picking the Moses basket off the floor, she began to change the baby's nappy, laying her on top of Illya. She could see him watching, unhappily following her with his eyes as she gathered the impedimentia of nappy changing and laid it next to the squirming baby. She glanced up, looking at him steadily as she pulled up the little dress and let Tasya kick her legs a little, free.

'Illya, when you are better, you will need to find your child if they are alive. You don't need me to tell you that. If he or she is your child, then you have a duty to them, as you do to Anastasiya, and . .' she hesitated, then continued, 'and to Sabi's baby'. She leaned over and brought up his chin, bringing her face near to Illya's. 'Any other children you've got hiding you haven't told me about, lover?'.

'If you want to punch me now, please feel free' he said, 'I deserve it, for making such a mess of my miserable life'. Anastasiya screamed, throwing her arms back as Therese pinned on the nappy. 'See', Illya continued, 'my daughter agrees with me'. Therese finished with the baby, and, lifting the sheet and blanket, wedged her by Illya's side in the bed.

'You're a good pair together' she said, 'both cute but also extremely demanding'. Illya and the baby managed to contrive to pull the same appealing face at the same time, a mixture of innocence and wonder at what she could possibly mean. Therese sat down on the bed, stroking the baby's hair. 'Now we have to talk about yet another possible addition to the family'.

Illya's face screwed up with confusion.

'As I said before you started listing your progeny, Pablo is now here alone. He comes from Petra in Mallorca. It's the town where Junipero Serra was born too, you remember . .'

'The Apostle of California' Illya muttered, brows still contracted.

'Smart Russian. Pablo's name is Fortesa'. Therese sat down on the bed, taking the baby and rocking her gently. 'Eventually, she found the grandparents. It's not a big town, and the name is quite unusual. Pablo is an only child. Three months after he was taken, his parents were killed in a road accident outside Palma. His grandparents are very old, and unable to care for him. They have requested that he be adopted if possible, or else he will have to go to the Catholic orphanage at Palma'.

Illya stared at his wife and child. The baby was now fast asleep, her little hands tucked together as if she was praying. Therese looked down at her, smiled, and then placed her carefully in the basket, before sitting down on the bed next to the prostrate form of her husband.

'Does he know?' Illya murmured, thinking of the wild haired child gripping onto him like a little animal in the dark, his head bent into Illya's chest, as if he could protect him from the nightmare that he had endured.

'Yes he does, because I told him' Therese said. 'While you've been taking your ease here' she added, smiling, 'Pablo and I have spent a lot of time together. In fact, he's spent a lot of time with all of us, as you'll see shortly. I asked Joey about the legal side of things, and she said that . . .'

'Are you saying you want us to adopt him?'. She could see that he was thinking, even though his eyes were now closed, and he looked, for the first time in some days, relaxed. She plunged on.

'Um. Well, yes I am, I suppose. What do you think? I haven't discussed it with him of course, there's a lot to be got through. We have to get permission for him to enter the USA and then . '

'Therese. You are twenty six years old. You already have a baby. No doubt there will be others, probably sooner rather than later, knowing our skill with family planning. Then there will be the mess over Sabi's baby, and then of course, if the other child is alive, we have to decide about him or her. Do you really want to take on another, quite unrelated child, who will probably need a lot of care, as well as , I presume, in the odd seconds you have spare, continuing your career?'.

There was a profound silence in the room. Illya kept his eyes closed, images of children drifting in and out. Just over a year ago he hadn't even got a steady girlfriend; in another year, he could be the father of at least four children. His mind buzzed slightly at the thought of it. He opened his eyes to find that he was alone, and suddenly realised that he didn't like it very much. The last months of enforced bachelordom had left him miserable and lonely, and he had no intention of returning to that state.

'I am ready, Teresa'. Therese looked down at the little boy stood to attention in the corridor. She had effected a transformation in the child; he was now looking a little more filled out, his skin glowing, and his hair clean, the soft fringe falling across his forehead, Illya-style. . _Good pair together_ she thought, as she pushed it back from his face.

'Remember' she whispered into his ear, 'don't tell him what we talked about; what he doesn't know he doesn't worry about. I'm sure it will be fine'. She kissed him on the forehead, and he clung to her for a few seconds, before timidly knocking at the door and going in. Therese gently sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands. _What he doesn't know he won't worry about._ Other people just met, got married, and had a baby. With this man, it was so much more complicated. She uncovered her hands and could just see Anastasiya in her basket. Without Illya, there would be no Tasiya. No Tasiya, no house in Grove St, no strong arms round her waist, no blue eyes, no wild hair to tease him about. No so many other things that she just couldn't imagine not having now. She sighed, leaned back against the wall and thanked God for all his blessings.

She could hear voices, one low and quiet, then Pablo's higher one, talking very quickly, almost gabbling in a breathy Spanish she hoped Illya would understand. After what seemed like a long time, the door opened and Pablo stood there, beckoning her in. She could see at once from his body language what had happened. His little frame was fizzing with excitement, and he ran from one to the other, then back again to hug Therese, before diving onto the bed.

'I sense a plot' came the voice from the bed. She came round, lifted the basket onto the bed and then hotched Illya up again so that he lay on her lap, with Pablo on his other side, Illya looking up at her while she combed his hair back with her fingers.

'Nonsense' she breathed, smiling at the little boy, 'I can't imagine why you would think that, _mi amor'._ Illya opened his eyes slightly and looked across at Pablo.

'He looks a bit like you' he murmured; 'your eyes'.

'Mm. Whilst his hair, apart from the colour, is pure Kuryakin' Therese replied, tugging at the tousled mass of blond.

'Ouch. Yes, well I suppose I'll have to endure what you're hinting at soon, but not yet. I have the excuse that I can't raise my head off the pillow, and I'm holding onto that. The little boy smiled broadly and shook his head.

'Wait until you're tip top, then you can smarten up, eh, old boy?'. It was all said with a perfect, though surreal public schoolboy accent. Illya sighed, deeply.

'And who has let Vaz near him?' he asked wearily.

Xxxxxxxxx

The house was festooned with two very large flags, which hung artistically across the wall of the front sitting room. The stars and stripes were mingled with the bright red of the Soviet flag, the hammer and sickle faintly shining against the red, white and blue.

At the back of the house, the French windows opened invitingly onto the garden, the gravel absorbing the heat of the summer day, bright flowers in pots soaking up the sunshine. The back room had been transformed, a long table now hidden beneath a tempting array of food, reminding Illya of their wedding, as he surreptitiously selected a canapé from the loaded plate at one end.

'Feeling hungry, comrade, or is that name redundant now?'

'I'm still a Russian, Napoleon, as well you know, whatever it says on my passport'. Napoleon leaned across and helped himself to a large piece of cold pizza from the table, giving Illya a quick glance in the process as he walked across the room and flopped down on the green sofa, now pushed against the wall while the party was in full sway.

'Well, you could almost pass for an American now' Napoleon said, squinting at the recumbent form of his partner on the sofa, complete with very smart suit and a beautiful pair of soft black shoes, which he was in the process of kicking off as he lay there, 'if it weren't for those Cossack locks of yours'. Illya touched his hair, pleased by its length. He felt as if he had returned to who he was before the nightmare of the last few months had unfolded.

'No regrets?' Napoleon searched the placid features for some sadness at the surrendering of his citizenship.

'Napoleon, to some people, I suppose I'll never even pass for an American, never mind be one' Illya replied. 'However, as to regrets, the only regret I have is that, at least for now, I can't take my children and show them my home. But perhaps, one day it may be possible. At least for now, my family is secure'.

Napoleon nodded. A vivid picture of Li-Hua Bolt flooded his mind. Whilst Illya had lain somewhere between life and death, Napoleon had begun the hunt for Bolt, but to date, it was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Now he had added to that task, the hunt for this child, if they were alive.

'Well, so much for the single life' Napoleon replied, lying back at the other end of the sofa. 'Footloose, fancy free, gorgeous girls, plenty of them. . now look at us. Married, children; in your case comrade, many children. What happened?'. Illya sighed and put his feet up.

'Well, I can't speak for you, Napoleon, but having experienced the so-called joys of single life again for the last few months, I know which state I prefer'.

As if on cue, there was a thunderous noise in the corridor and Pablo rushed in, glanced round, and then threw himself onto Illya.

'Daddy, daddy, come _on,_ mama wants you to take Tazzy while she brings up the champagne, and I am helping' he cried, his English almost perfect, but still retaining a hint of Spanish in the soft tones of his accent. Napoleon looked at the little boy spreadeagled over the Russian. In three months, he had filled out and grown into a beautiful child, with gentle brown eyes and thick soft brown hair, cut into a much tidier style than the blond underneath him.

'Daddy?' Napoleon said, as Pablo ran off, shouting 'Uncle Alex' as he spotted a familiar figure in the garden.

'You should know by now that being married to an English woman means a confusion of terms for most things' Illya replied, jumping up as Alexander Waverly entered the room, carrying Anastasiya, Pablo gripping on hard to his hand. The baby was wearing a white cotton bonnet, her bright red hair poking round the brim giving her face a rather fiery frame .

'Sir' Illya said, taking the gurgling baby, who instantly grabbed his hair and yanked it, her little hands wrapped round the golden strands with grim determination.

'Ouch. Tasiya!' he exclaimed, 'let go please'. He carefully prised her fingers open, her expression not lost on Napoleon.

'I think she might be telling you something' he said. He looked closely at Anastasiya. Her eyes had darkened to a very familiar shade of violet blue, and the red hair completed a startling similarity to her aunt.

'Yes, she looks alarmingly like your wife' Illya murmured, smiling. 'Let's hope the genetic transfer hasn't included other personality traits'.

They sat down, Waverly knocking out his pipe on a conveniently stationed ash-tray specially placed for the purpose, next to the armchair he had lowered himself into.

'I understand you've been cleared to return to work on Monday' Waverly said, giving Illya a long, meditative look from under his bushy eyebrows.

'Yes sir. Though I still have to finish some work in the gym, according to my _trainer'._ He emphasised the word, Napoleon smirking as he looked out of the window and saw his wife approaching rapidly from the garden.

'Ah yes. It was fortunate that Mr Schoeneich was willing to transfer to New York, wasn't it?' Waverly replied, the pipe now billowing forth in its usual way. 'I understand that he's made a considerable difference to the efficiency of our training programmes since he's arrived, eh, Mr Solo?'.

'What?' Napoleon stuttered, completely absorbed in looking at Josefina, who had been prevented from reaching him by someone he suddenly recognised. 'Oh yes, he's been an absolute phenomenon. I'm looking forward to the opening of the new gym, _really_ looking forward to it'.

Waverly made some indistinguishable sound from behind his pipe, and then laid it on the ashtray.

'It was rather unfortunate about Dr Rondeau' he said simply, gazing at Illya. 'She would have made a fine addition to the medical staff at UNCLE. However, you may wish to know, Mr Kuryakin, that we have recently been given intelligence from our people in France about her late husband'. Illya swivelled slightly, fixing his eyes on Waverly.

'It appears that the story about the accident was a fiction as you thought' Waverly continued. Dr Rondeau was terrified that if she revealed the truth, even to you Mr Kuryakin, then she would never see her child again. Phillipe Rondeau is almost certainly still alive, and of course, holds a high position in THRUSH, somewhere in Europe I would guess'.

'So that's why the guard Willow referred to her 'compliance' Illya said, his eyes downcast. 'And so I presume by all this . .'

'Yes, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly added, 'it seems that your child is also alive, but where, rather like Miss Bolt's whereabouts, we have absolutely no idea at the moment'.

Napoleon turned away from the other two men, suppressing a grin at who was advancing towards them across the garden. The Russian had now seen Josefina's companion too.

'What is _he_ doing here? he sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes, as he peered out at the party in the garden.

'Darling, he's taken over Section 12 here, and he's sharing with Ingo and me, in fact we're only just round the block. We're going to have a truly ' _Deutches Haus'!_.

Sabi had come in from another room, and proceeded to push Illya over a little to make room for her, as Napoleon jumped up to put his arm round Jo. Before he could say anything, Rudi had run in and hugged Illya, squashing him between himself and Sabi.

'Well, isn't that mighty fine?' Napoleon said, finding it difficult to stop himself from laughing at his partner's expression. 'One big happy UNCLE family, eh comrade?'.

Xxxxxx

The developing liquid slopped gently in the trays, mysteriously revealing images of people and places as if they were emerging from a dense fog into the strange red world of the darkroom. Therese smiled at the picture she carefully pegged to the line suspended above her head. A man lying on a deserted beach; the slight body at rest, as if he'd been thrown up onto the sand by the sea, and left there. Flotsam, to be found later by lonely walkers, and tossed back in again. His hair was spread round his head and seemed to be flowing into the sand; shaggy, sand-coloured. The shade of a pine tree threw shadows over him and drew the eye to a figure prancing in the sea; a little boy, the spume of the waves thrown up round him as he frolicked in the water. By the side of the man a basket with a tiny baby's form just visible. _My family_ , she thought. _My wonderful family_.


End file.
